he said he would call me tomorrow,

but I don't know if that day will come.

I can't distinguish between

references of time,

they merge and become

a solid, tangible mess of headaches.

or reminders of the absences,

like weights hanging from my neck,

stifling with every step.

holes fill up the house,

plugged, spread so rapidly,

and metastasize,

from the man-made and lifeless

to the cells of my skin.

but then again, I can't distinguish

between me and this chair,

into which I sank deeper,

or it sank too deep into me.

we are anchored,

and okay for now,

there is a need to divide.

to become detached

from the familiar,

I must tear myself away

in order to see myself


I am digested by the walls,

and floors and ceilings.

I can't distinguish between

up and down and which is worse.

but I know, something must be worse,

there must be a preference.

and so I choose, accidentally

and hope that I'm not wrong.

he said he would call me tomorrow,

but the syllables and symbols

stranded on their own

are unrecognizable,

black crumbs on paper,

it's a jungle, a riddle,

and a question in my voice,

what does it mean?