3 AM

Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.

-Pablo Neruda

There is a woman
sitting beneath herself
and all she can see
is four darkened walls
and the outline of a tree
outside her window.

Her thoughts, spirals.
Her words, muted.
And finally, a door to separate it all.

This round knob is symbolic
and the handle is shattered.
The possibilities dissolve
between grasping fingertips.

Nothing opens or closes.

(The nights are passing,
approach them cautiously.)