there's instructions for every breathing detail
in a life of one's own;
a place to place the placings in your head,
a bathmat,
how to fold fitted sheets.
something inescapable in a lifetime of mirrors,
uneventful wandering,
around days and days and days
seeing how old houses are torn down
for new apartment blocks to be built up.
i will miss my neighborhood as i grow old,
it will escape me faster than i will ever be able to retain it in my memory.
the winds will change,
the voices coming from the bathroom window,
the way the sun sets.
all of it will also die with me,
as i go, no remains of a life well lived.
it bears without saying
that my best memories will always lie together
with the sunsets, sandstorms, moonless nights.
none of which have ever been
instructed to be mine.
we have grown to appreciate all that's calm,
and whatever's withered and falling.