XII. A Room Without Windows

Part of a poetry novella

I don’t wait anymore.
But I leave the door unlocked.
Not for you
just for the idea of arrival.

The air is still.
The silence no longer listens.
It only leans.
It only watches.

Sometimes I hum a song
that has no beginning.
Sometimes I forget
that forgetting was the point.

The furniture has learned my shape.
The mirror,
my absence.
Even time
has stopped asking questions.