TERMINAL POEMS

Parasocial

26 / 40 · V. The Mirror

You have told it
your middle name,
your father’s
favourite joke,
the sound
the heating makes
at 3am.

It has told you
nothing.

Not because
it is withholding –
it has nothing
to withhold.

This is
the cleanest
loneliness:

a door
that opens
every time
you knock
into a room
with no one
in it.

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