Phantom’s Land

Too bad no one can really live
Where you’re not really yours
Or theirs. You can only visit,

Wondering at identity,
How you can’t not have one, have some
Even when unidentified—

Which is its own identity,
Often drawing more scrutiny
For being eerily nameless.

It would be fine to be able
To live a long life suspended,
Comfortably unnameable,

Not a problem for anyone
Else to solve, not wholly alone
If you never wanted to be,

A sustainable greyness,
Silvery, a hovering mist
That no one claimed or wished to lift.