There is no return address.
Only a smudge where the sky
meets something like land.

A road begins,
then vanishes into dust
before you can follow it.

No trees here,
just silhouettes pretending
not to be lost.

The sun rises sideways,
or maybe it never moves-
just hangs there,
heavy and unsure.

I found a chair in the middle of a field
with no house nearby,
facing nothing,
waiting for no one.

People wave without looking at you.
Maybe they see something else.
Maybe they're only remembering
how it felt
to be seen.

The wind says nothing useful.
It carries secrets
it has long forgotten how to keep.

I wrote this
on the back of a napkin
I never used.
I think I was trying to tell you
that I'm still here.

Wherever this is.