20

In two hundred years
nobody will know
who you loved, who you
thought of while
standing at the feet of
volcanoes. No one will
care
what it was that kept you
awake at night, no one
will know what you looked like

And on nights when you
are too tired to put the sheets on the bed
and it’s just you
and naked pillows
you can know that someday
you will not even have a name
and the state of your heart
has disintegrated
with the books you imagined
passing down to future relatives

And someday
all your secrets
will crawl back into you
and be silent, and
this is not a sad story