am i waiting for something that doesn't exist?

this is where a poem would be. if I had one.

this empty space looks back at me- an eternity observing at a distance, waiting.

i've settled into this three-dimensional space, living out my linear existence- my sentience cast as sculpture, waiting in line.

the silence has acquired a shape. dust rehearses the outline of things i almost meant.

somewhere, language is still becoming itself. birdsong discovers the morning without first consulting a dictionary. the tide arrives having forgotten every name ever given it.

perhaps poems are not written.

perhaps they are excavated- a careful brushing-away of everything that believed it was stone.

if so, i've mistaken the waiting for the work.

i've been polishing the pedestal instead of listening for the first fracture.

this is where a poem would be.

1. borrowing misery from future

2. carrying grief of the past

To exist beautifully

without being truly seen.

I covered the empty spaces quietly,

made the room feel warmer,

softer,

less lonely for you.

And at first

that felt like purpose.

Until I realized

you only noticed me

when somebody else did.

When they mentioned my colors.

My softness.

My presence.

Then your eyes would trace over me briefly,

like a stranger admiring décor

they forgot they owned.

Most days, though,

I was just there.

Part of the background

you stopped looking at

because you assumed

I would never leave.

And maybe that’s the cruelest thing

about becoming someone’s wallpaper

you hang there for years

hoping one day

they will finally stand still long enough

to see the art in you.

But rooms grow used to their walls.

And eventually,