I’ll emigrate. Far into wilderness,
of some forest mentioned in my sixth grade geography book.
Not to grow up. Just to take my time,
climb a few peaks and build my own house on a mountain slope.
Waking up. To look out,
soft morning sun flattering my room, my space.
Finding heaven. As I sniff, nose-deep into books,
calming me down with their scent and contents.
I fall silent.