Everything sounds strange inside an empty room.
A whisper sounds like snakes hissing inside your ear
a snake hissing sounds like the wind and the wind
sounds like screaming, but there is no wind and
the only screams here come from your head.
I guess this is what it’s like between you and I
and I’m only just finding out that this room’s not
so empty after all. There’s ash stuck beneath
my sole, and my footprints tell me I’ve come from
somewhere so far away, the mountains have
grown smaller and there’s only love songs in the
air because all the birds have gone to sleep.
They’ve been asleep too long, I’m afraid they’re
all dead. The trees are bare, their arms, such
stringy, little things now. If I were a tree,
a couple of tourists about to get married would
come from foreign lands to watch the sun set
in my homeland, they’d take photographs and
pluck our flowers, they’d eat our food and carve
their names upon my flesh, believing this would
turn them immortal. But trees die, and love dies.
And if I were a tree, I’d wrap my roots around
my chest and squeeze and squeeze because
everything sounds strange inside an empty room.