My body captive of gravity
lying down on my bed—
as if protesting against existence.
Against one more step forward.
Against the survival game,
preferably called life.
The sound of washing the dishes,
the water splash,
once so sharp,
which then goes silent,
the clatter of stacking one plate on another,
the clink of spoons and forks.
The noise echoes freely
to disturb the silence.
The disturbance proves
someone is living.
The shimmering light,
fighting to enter
through the half-open door
to my dark room,
dark as a black hole.
My eyes can’t but follow it
to the curtain,
where the light enters through the small gap,
the gap I left last night,
as if some part of me
still expected the morning.
The light,
and the sound of washing the dishes,
looks like someone is living.
My body still tied to bed,
like it has sworn to part ways with life.
The smell of the fresh bread,
wandering freely…
in the airspace of my room.
The smell is so careless,
showing off—
how borders are meaningless.
And my lungs have no choice
but to inhale—
an ounce of hope.
The smell of fresh bread,
the light,
the sound of washing the dishes,
the water splash,
looks like someone is living.
Looks like someone interferes
my protest against life.
Looks like I let it.
