I stare at the ceiling tiles
counting them, first
when I am done, I count the little imperfections
thousands of dimples in the tiles
It’s useless
It’s grounding
In my periphery, the early morning light falls on your form
perfect as a scene on a Grecian urn
you’re not frozen in time, however
and your eyes burn into me
they ask questions your mouth is too cowardly to utter
I avoid their urgency
while, steadily, I count
one, two, three. . .
Around ten or eleven, I lose myself
I start over so many times that i even lose track of that
Your eyes, still burning
I shut mine
and hope for oblivion