Time takes a breath, uses it’s sleeve to wipe your glasses clean
You never thought that you’d wear sunglasses indoors
That’s reserved for latent existentialists and professional poker tournaments

One second, while your eyes adjust

You observe the pattern of the wallpaper, seek resemblances
In line and empty space and could’ve sworn you saw the face of someone
Who didn’t care much for you staring at them that way

It’s the quiet of the washing up 
A saint appears in the dregs of your coffee cup
And like those people who insist that they found Elvis in their packet of crisps
You think, ‘there’s something in that...’

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