I swallow a room in my mind,
to digest its origins.
Its woodwork churns and mollifies,
I could feel my fingers full of sawdust and laughter,
lost handprints(possibly mine), from the dying
furniture and the floor caress my head.
You will always find a way to meet yourself,
once you are forgotten by everyone.
The lights are turning dim,
I do not know, how to serve light in a tall glass for myself?
Can you teach my fist to hold sands of darkness?
I shall learn somehow, to sprinkle when necessary.
You can learn anything, you want.
But remember to put off the light in the end.
The garden screams with its emptiness,
and my eyes could bear the shrieks.
Is this is how I forget your touch?
Without music? Without sleep?