Empty Malls

Time is the same as waiting
each marked second minuscule proof
that I'm not in control.
When did I become so obsessed?
Glancing up or down,
trying to mark my place,
as if the numbers were a mall map
telling me I'm here or here,
but really, I'm nowhere.
Each store closing one by one.
Their facades dark,
sandwiched between the ones
still clinging to relevance.
Except none of them were ever relevant.
None of us are.
I wanted to hang onto everything
that filled my space; keepsakes,
flat and meaningless.
Now I want to purge.
Now I want to throw it all away.