In the cold of a winter
He came in home
Just in time for dinner.

The key opened the door,
No one was surprised with his presence,
He sat on the end of the table,
Ate the dinner,
Not a look, not a comment,
They may even have not noticed him,
They may have not heard him,
Or the tinkling of  cutlery.

He withdraw after finished,
Went to the apartment door,
And it was his apartment,
But with all those people,
Unknown,
Strangers,
As if they owned the place.

Inside again,
At the bathroom,
The mirror confessed:
He was not there.
His time has passed.
He was not dead (that he knew for sure)
But he just was not there.

Hard to say where
He could be,
When he could be.
His decaying senses
Were of no help.
Everything he could feel
Of that time-space in the apartment,
But his whole body
Was somewhere else.

He slept on his bed,
But woke with the sun in his face.
No apartment,
No bed,
No dinner,
No ceiling.

Just a wanderer
Touching the last of his belongings:
His memories
Of what used to be his dream.