My home. Have you fallen ill? You no longer belong to the native soil at all. Above, anxiety has drawn taut—when you wait but do not know for what. The sky does not let air through, does not breathe. It simply hangs there. This earth will bear nothing anymore, will hold nothing, shelter nothing. It has become foreign not because it has changed, but because you have ceased to lean upon it. You no longer trust it. You are where nothing solid should exist. You have become a ghost of the sky, not of the earth. Is this our final rupture? Tell me it is not so. I beg you. Tell me we have one more chance. I cannot touch you—neither by step, nor by hand, nor by return. You have become a vertical without a foundation. A form without a place. A memory no longer tethered to me. But I still see you when I raise my gaze with weary pain. Nostalgia tears itself away from reality. You are where no one lives. Where one can only look. Where nothing can ever be reached. #4