when faucet drips clock seconds

 I consider desperation: 

        scooping water up.  back into the rusting maw

 but the skins of the drops are breaking

and what seemed like moments

 blend

to drainage.

 far away my dreams soak coral

or boil in vents

 but here I'm dessicating.

 time bleeding to the air 

breathing the dust they'll bury me in

and of course it's so damn meaningful

that I am here 

and you are there

that I want a difference, now or then;

that something's being lost even now