Like My Smile, The Room Was Barren

There’s a ruin in this room

Of a novel not written.

I asked too much of it.

Thoughts never caught up

with words here.

And the solitude became insufferable.

The room is tainted like a photograph

in which I see myself smiling,

arrogantly it seems,

for no other reason than to smile.

“I’m pleasant enough,”

the room says,

“but like your smile,

I am hollow.”


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