Zywa
Landed high
My tent is in the room
rolled up in the corner
next to the guest bed
I glance behind me
the door is not locked
just like all the doors
in this hall, nineteen high
in the sky, I am a scared little bird
in a strange nest
that rocks in the wind
Inside, the air rustles softly
sensors feel what I like
to feel with my own senses:
the season, the sand and the sun
but I do not dare to go out
500 steps are too much for me, the elevator too small
I take a long shower
put on other clothes
over my anxiousness:
here I am, in your world
to see you
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