Untitled 5

I. 

I stand in the quiet house, 

the one with rooms unlit, where time leaks 

through the ceiling, one drop 

at a time. You ask me if I remember, 

and I want to say yes— 

II.  

There’s no ceremony to it— 

how silence becomes a language, 

how a life becomes a chore. 

I sit at the window and watch the world. 

Somewhere, a child 

laughs as if joy were simple, as if it knew 

no bounds. I want to ask it how it feels 

but my mouth is full of bile. 

III. 

I thought I could rise from the roots, 

but the earth stayed still, the sky never called me back. 

It’s cinematic how the  

years wilt like forgotten letters in drawers.  

(they were once meant to be opened)  

IV. 

We all had wings once, I think, 

but somewhere between falling asleep for school and waking up for work 

they unraveled in the dark. 

Like prayers you only whisper when you think no one is listening. 

And now I walk through this field,  

grounded,  

knowing even the grass forgets my feet. 

I once believed in bloom  

but the world has a way of letting you fade 

before you ever get the chance to grow. 

V. 

I tried to gather the hours— 

a handful of rain slipping 

through my cupped palms. 

But time runs, 

it runs and takes everything with it, 

leaving me here— 

a room with too many windows, 

none facing the sun. 

VI. 

I dream of living the way 

dust settles—softly, without mark. 

The silence fills me until 

I am all silence. 

Even the clock turns, 

and the walls breathe, but I don’t— 

I wait, 

like a door that never opens, 

for a hand that never knocks.