More & More

The door creaks and
the windows are a blurry
mess of steam,
trickling down is the rain.
More.

The past hour turned to 3.00am
and the wind is now rushing,
she whispers through the door
and rattles inside.
Still more.

The furniture is turning stale,
and the atmosphere is grey,
reducing in life.
The drunks are yelling outside.

There's no movement in
between the small-talk inside though,
it's now 4am and they exchanged
some words.
Good. Still more.

The monotonous routine
fits into the day so well.
Whenever she thinks she should leave,
she hears there is more.
She is comforted with there's more.
And so she waits for more.
But more doesn't come.

Identity is never easy,
I am told I am his,
His.
His- like a possession.

But these bones are bending
in search of something more.

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Image Source : Pixabay

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