the window of my room
is open, covered in
september's night dew
sighs from
the girl in the reception
finds its way inside
as she prepares for
another new day—
such is the morning
here, so
overwhelmingly
woeful
gripping tight around
the hearts of the inhabitants—
i am talked to by
whitewashed
walls.

painful
minutes pass
i am too scared to open
my eyes
a river
whispers
incomprehensively
from outside
hopelessly
bound in its
circularity
like me.