like an abandoned house, my body creaks.
the floors shutter inside
at the occurrence of any visitors.
a forgotten door remains open-

waiting.
she'll always be waiting.
by now, she's forgotten
if there's anything worth waiting for.

is there any music left in me?
is just feeling enough
to fill the silence?
i can still feel it.

i'm still spinning-
i'm spinning,
spinning,
falling back into poetry.