Opus

A letter to grandma

If grandma was still here, what would she make of me?
What would she make of us? Of our lousy poetry scribbled on airy walls?

...

Grandma,
I don't think we made it.
I have a room of my own, now
The same one that you fought and bled for
Where you thought and dreamt and took down heavy books from the top shelves.
Books with black words and the spaces between them infinite.

I have a room of my own, now.
But the emptiness of it
engulfs
my days
I have lost all my words, grandma.

Take me to the bottom of the ocean
Where narratives lie unerected
Where time runs with the sun,
We close our eyes and the world stands still.
Only silence prevails.