I am writing a eulogy
it’s meant for me
just to help me sleep a bit
when it’s raining outside
and warily, I must
look for the spark of joy
a mezzanine between
my ego and my empathy.
I know how easy
it is to foster distance,
measuring it with
your hands’ inveterate longing
for a week without traffic,
without noise, without humans
and their gangrenous joy.
I am writing a eulogy
it’s meant for me.
*Photo by Anirban Ghosh on Unsplash
