It happens when you least expect it.

Closure binds me to a fruitless warmth and the hatred of the other promises assurance.
My patience creaks in voids unacknowledged, and my selfishness scratches on the surface of my calmness.

It's a shared home with a crooked stairwell occupied by the sound of ascending lives I have to bear with.
The droplets in the kitchen sink assures progression in the world in which I lack. I am always reminded that water is constantly flowing or going new places, which I can never compete with.
The fruits that are renting out the space in the refrigerator speaks to me in a lifestyle- just like the cigarettes littered around town are.
I wish for serene hangovers that feel and look as smooth as the silk robe hanging on the doorknob, or the awareness and the energy of the cockroach sprinting in the toilet when the lights go on.