I've searched for you down corridors
trying to find the hidden elevator
wanting it to take me upwards.
I'm sure I saw a sign somewhere.

Nobody even told me what floor
you were on
or how long you would stay
in that unknown place.

This whole place, like a white and blinding purgatory
with its unnatural silence,
the soft thumps of rubber soles
against floors and
the sound of wheels,
spinning fear around them,
with every turn,
with every inch forward,
and spreading it through hallways,
sneaking it over the doorsteps.

This whole place reeks with fear.
I don't know how much of it is mine,
but some surely must belong to you.

This path we are on;
I think we're still moving
in circles.
Even though I know there's supposedly an end,
and while I have searched before,
this place has immobilized my efforts,

and is simply where we wait.

Do I have the right
to want to find it for you?