six years in the same room

Six years onward, the spiders will look the same
even more tired, as they spin their webs into the corners of the room

the walls will peel off for lack of use
revealing old stone, like a cut into the bones

in the room, the talk will come and go
with a continuous flow about the triviality of things

the way the moon curves on the lips of a lover
the same lover who forgets the hours allowed long enough to brew conceits in her absence

these shoes will remain the same,
punctured at the tips where the big toe sleeps quietly

when the room doesn't lend itself to change
it will remain, the same, until time notes otherwise.