Idle hands in the glow of a broken screen,
Clock laughs 3 a.m., I’m still stuck between
the echo of your maybe and the hum of the fridge.
Tap a heart that never beats back,
swipe the dust across tomorrow—
same four walls, same cracked ceiling,
same me, rehearsing smiles for no one.
Outside, the city yawns neon,
inside, my pulse keeps forgetting the chorus.
If motion is living, I’m just buffering,
a ghost on loop, buffering, buffering…