Can you pass me the clock from under the table?
It is empty; all delicacies already eaten.
The room is white. Sterile. Smooth.
Grey geese fly south; I see them from the window
That stares into my soul
from the head end.

Can you pass me the clock from under the table?
Its ticking is... ticking me off

I wonder how it feels
to hold a beating heart
in my own two hands.
As I see the sweep hand twitching on my skin,
I'm more vulnerable than ever.

Even though,
it is someone else’s life
that I crush between my fingers.