Ennui used to be so convenient, until:
my shapeless silences became too much.
Between my messy room
and my empty head, I wait—for nothing,
for no one, in particular.
Which is cluttered, which is clean—
I do not know anymore.
Of the idleness, of the incoherency,
I will always be afraid.
My songs grow bones
and my heart takes wings.
Only then will I scavenge the words, the chances,
and pieces of myself
that long ago I thought garbage.