killing time

the afternoon splits

into several interludes—

a sip of watery coffee,

sudden mouthful of ice

staring at the graphite

face that no longer looks

like any human being

fidgeting; toss a chewed-up

toy past a protesting flick

of an orange striped tail

switching out playlists

genre adventuring before

a sudden flood of migraine

abruptly halts that journey

crushed biscuit crumbs

and the odd pungent smell

of ketchup that refuses to

air out and leave, somehow

pangs of anxieties caught

in between unfilled cavities

good enough? bad enough?

pretending to be properly

productive, as if there’s no

complaints nor conversation

and just radio silence from the

other end of a blinking mobile

as everyone else is busy with

living, and i’m still fazing frozen

in another dead-end afternoon.

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