Every room you enter is empty. All around you the cards collapse.
You give a stranger your hand and find you have no fate left, or not enough to light a match.
You play chords on the guitar but there is no song, only the notes fingering each other, too shy to fall in love.
Words break and scatter, like whispers, or leaves in the wind. Language stands by the window, a barren tree, reaching for the sky.
Somewhere between blue and gray, the feeling turns from color to light.
You take in the evening like a skirt. Stick pins in the wall to map the day's retreat.
Time passes like ripples in a glass.
If what you feel is a feeling, then it's one without a name.