Lone

The small movement of your chest,

each breath, the only sign.

Walls dull, no fresh paint, scuffs

in the corners a reminder of 

life. Rain beats against the roof,

it's constant pattern becoming 

silence. You stare out the grubby window.

Time must be passing but the matte grey sky remains unchanged.

Tea cold, an oily layer forming,

it might be minutes, 

it might be hours,

it might be days,

a haze of endless, empty spaces,

no faces you recognise,

no voices other than the evening news,

no sharing of your morning views,

or musings with anyone but the plants

you no longer really water.