He walks so slow like
his feet have grown too fond of each other,
but he’s heading towards a door,
so I guess it’s ok.
I’ve opened that door before.
It’s cold and covered with the sweat
of bedridden dreams and guilty aspirations.
Its heavy, but I guess, I never really push hard enough.
There’s nothing on the other side
but trampled tiles painted a thousand different shades of white.
So slowly he comes to this door of emptiness,
yet he can’t even open it, his grasp is too gentle,
his eyes are too faint,
but I don’t really care,
so I watch.