There’s a house at the end of the road
between the oak and the willow
with a gate too high to ever see what’s inside
and a living room too large to fill.

In every barren room,
there patiently lies
windows that cry — to be kicked open,
and balconies that talk — only to each other.

There’s a thin line between being
too roomy and too lonely. Space
has the damning ability
to make such distinction.

Perhaps the real luxury
after all
is to live loudly amidst intolerable noise
than to perish placidly in deafening silence.