the room does not speak
it doesnt need to
its silence folds me like linen
set aside for mourning
that never quite began
the ghosts are tired of me
or maybe i have stopped
feeding them
this is the dark that asks nothing
not the hunter’s dark
but the hush of snow before it lands
the pause before it knows it's falling
i sit here
shaped but unscripted
an hourglass with no hour
a form memory forgot to fill in
i am empty
yes
but without ache
just
space
what pours in
may be music
or mist
or the bones of a future i havent been asked to carry yet
i do not know what i am to be
but i am what is ready