Twenty-Year Poem In the trees I knead the roots and only see my parents

Twenty-Year Poem In the trees I knead the roots and only see my parents—but barely see trees here. In the buildings, I only see the windows and am already in love with what they hide—and I only see Her. In the cars, I only see the shadow and these ghosts haunt me. On the sidewalks, I do not see the viable paths you saw when we were together. And yes, in my house, I no longer see you, I do not dream much. In my hand, I do not see yours and I am already unique. In these fingerprints, I only see the typing touching the world. That I only see another randomly the same first moment—and second, and second, and minute, and I pray, and hour, and delay, night falls, day, and without a sister in the family, I am, week, at my mercy, nothing is mine, month, without a master, semester, without a plan, year, year and a half, without a middle, only an instant... and quickly I descend to the decade. In decadence, I soon reach the decade, and so soon I am already twenty years old...