Lately,
my mind has been writing
white words on white paper.
I’ve been singing lullabies to the void,
standing where the truths you
left unspoken go to die.

And I stay up all night, pondering
if this is the place I’ve always lived in.
If  I have to accept this is the place
I’ve written my name on a red mailbox,
even though dust is the only thing inside,
where I wake up and water the daisies
in a garden invaded by wild forget-me-not's.


Maybe this is my hometown,
maybe I’m just meant to be
the lonely character that spies
at their neighbors through the lens
of worn-out binoculars wondering
how it must feel like
to be seen.