We’ve made this place of leaving—
a vault for the untended.
Emotions stack like unlabeled jars,
their contents thick with time,
sediments of grief,
crystals of joy unsavored.
Are we the living,
or the ones who forgot
to move their hands
in the rhythm of the world?
The air smells of waiting,
stale, heavy with pause.
We circle the same questions,
polishing them into mirrors
where our faces blur.
Inside us,
an atlas torn apart:
coastlines of longing,
islands of silence,
rivers carving paths we never took.
Each scar a road.
Each sigh a compass.
Yet the map to home
eludes us still.
We walk the perimeter of ourselves,
searching for the key we swallowed.
The treasures we hoard
are dust without light,
their worth unseen,
their meanings locked
in a language we once spoke
but let slip away.
What is this place?
A limbo where our shadows
mourn their bodies.
Here, even death hesitates,
unsure if it belongs.
And we, the keepers,
stand guard over
what we cannot name—
prisoners and sentinels both,
afraid to leave,
afraid to stay.
