I hear the clock, I hear your breath.
I hear the birds, unbound by time.
The cars go by on the one-way street
All headed to the same place (somewhere far).
I hear my thoughts.
I hear the wind.
(I wonder if they are the same).
I wish to breathe, to remain still,
But the future whispers impatiently my name.
I always feared permanence.
So why, now, the hurt?
I’ll keep writing with my pencil
In notebooks without lines. Facing erasure.
They could burn,
or get lost,
or get stolen
Like their lacking lines
Which were stolen off the page.
I no longer know where, exactly
I am expected to write.
Given that it will all change tomorrow.
I can only hope that my change will be directed
Towards my self,
That one I’m supposed to be,