It always sounds much better in an empty room
where the smell of leather sticks like a perfume
and the deficit of attention drowns the thought of you

Some place where perspective changes the view
of the perpetual puzzle that takes pieces of you,
and they are aged and altered into something new

The room with a sink, floors tiled, and empty walls,
where you wash your face and you dry it off,
now home to nearly broken strings
echoing
with words only important to me