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What do you do
when there’s nowhere left to walk,
and the air feels used,
and every morning is just
yesterday in cleaner clothes?

You sit still.
You watch the walls breathe.
You forget what day it is,
and it doesn’t matter.

Immortality teaches you how to disappear.
Not all at once,
but piece by piece.
You start with names.
Then faces.
Then the sound of someone saying your name
like it meant something.
It all falls off you
like dead skin.
But it itches when it leaves.

And the roots,
oh, the roots stay.
Buried in the back of your eyes.
In your jaw.
In the way you flinch
at songs you once loved.

There’s nothing brave
about not dying.
Just a thirst that doesn’t sleep.
A weight in your chest
that isn’t grief,
but something colder.
Like the memory of a war
you never fought
but still lost.

Immortality is not a miracle.
It’s a room with no exits
and no clocks.
It’s silence
that echoes.

You don’t become wise.
You just get tired
in new languages.

You watch the people you loved
turn into names you avoid.
You hold on,
but the world forgets to hold back.
Even the stars
don’t recognize you anymore.

And in the end,
you’re not a hero.
You’re not even a person.
Just some dust with a good memory,
still walking,
still hoping someone
will ask if you’re okay.

You touch things,
trees, stones,
old fences nobody paints anymore,
and you pretend
they remember you.
You write your name in frost,
then watch it melt
before you finish the last letter.

Yes, you’ll remain.
When the cities are bones,
when the rivers forget how to flow,
when even the wind
gives up on moving.
You’ll still be here.

But what’s the use of staying
when everyone else
learned how to leave?

So you build a room in your mind.
You hang shadows on the walls
like old coats.
You feed your memories lies.
You say:
This is a blessing.
You whisper:
Maybe forever isn’t punishment.
You lie like it’s prayer.
And maybe that’s the only god left.
The one that keeps you company
when even your shadow
starts to go.
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