Some people
never leave the office before five.
They sit under fluorescent lights,
sipping coffee,
their dreams filed away in cabinets,
marked „someday.“

Some people
marry their first loves
and never think
about the roads they didn’t take,
the lips they didn’t kiss,
the lives they didn’t live.
They call it safety.

Some people
die in bed,
a whisper for a live,
and the night swallows them whole.
Their gravestones say:
„Beloved.“
Their ghosts scream:
„Bored.“