Winter 11.

Every day is the same charade: weary ghosts frequenting their favorite haunts. We’re all tired but no one ever moves.

No effort is made until we forget and fade away.

I always found it strange how you found comfort when I spoke in foreign tongue. (In Polish) What do you want from me that you cannot say? What do you want from me that I cannot do?

And my words collapsed like the lungs you’ve overused, for I’ve wasted my best fleeting hopes, but they weren’t you. I keep my eyes firmly closed, hoping I won’t see your face. But you are everywhere a shadow, and I am so alone. I am so alone.

But what are ghosts except memories we can’t let go?

Today I am what I never was: I am truly alone. Tomorrow I’ll be what I wish I were today: I won’t be afraid anymore.