Like an aged fruit,
the longer I stay, the softer
I become, the more bruise,
but should I say sorry?
Unlike red wine,
the longer I stay, the worse
I taste, the less lucid I become,
but should I try to go back?
Like a lost language,
the longer I stay, the more
I become foggy, less graspable.
But should I cry now?
Unlike their stories,
the longer I stay, the less
I become interesting, important. Invisible.
But should I continue talking?
