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

when there is no one left

who ever knew you, and

this is not a sad story