Me and the lock on the font door.

When the sun is barely up.
And someone in this house is already on their way to work.
And the only noise outside is that one bird.
And someone jogs passed my window, fitter and happier, they think, then me.
And the cans and bottles have moved from the desks to floor.
And the sun makes the outside look like the inside.
And my head looks on the inside like the outside.
And the clothes on the floor blend together to a blurry mass of fabrics and textures.
And old love letters fall from my hand.
And I pull up on the handle so my bedroom door opens easier.
And the pounding of feet down the hall is four.
And the lock on the front door turns one way, then seconds later turns the other.
And the pounding of feet down the hall is now two.

That is time I think I will never see you again.

So far I have been right and wrong.