( spotify pin on first commentary)
It is so difficult to live
when there is nothing left inside us
that asks us to stay.
The soul becomes an abandoned room,
where even silence
smells of damp wood and goodbye.
My tears dried up so long ago
they no longer remember how to fall.
My blood,
after carrying all my dead,
has rusted too.
And still, I remain.
Not because there is still hope,
but because even death
seems to have forgotten my address.
I light another cigarette,
watch the smoke rise
like a soul that has finally found
a way out of this body.
Perhaps this is what living means:
continuing to breathe
when everything inside you
has already learned how to die.
And deep within my chest,
where love once lived,
there is nothing but rust
and the sound of a heart
beating purely out of habit.