Perhaps the night is starry.
The cold sits on the air like a nomadic throne–
You do not look out your window so you run out of descriptions.
You crumble into your sheets like an ice sculpture exposed to a furnace.
But you are no ice sculpture,
So you do not crumble:
You refuse to mold yourself into eccentric words of an art form–
You run out of metaphors.
You hate small spaces but you hold a basket full of sorrows.
You hate generalizations because what is inexperienced should not be defined with a certain tongue.
You hate candles because they remind you of the army of little dancing flames, neatly marching during brother’s burial,
Yet you do not hate death.
But you treat these pages like a disposal ground, covered with scrappings and the corpses of your emotions.
You remember love is a burden,
Yet solitude isn’t freedom either.