We can never be normal again,
We can never be the same again.
Is that how things were always meant
To be in the end?

I see you in the bathroom mirror
Looking back at me with the same face
Every time I go back
To that place.

Was it ever, really, truly home?
Or the only landmark you know?
Will I ever go back to that room
And talk to you?

Did we actually mean it as a joke?
Or was that the only way we could cope?
Will   I   ever   go   back   to   that   room
                                                            ­       And     talk
                                                            ­                         to     you?

(quiet, isn't it?)  

       the air holds its breath.  
               the walls do not move.  
                       the body is still—  
                                  at last, at last, at last.  

but time does not stop.  
        the clock hiccups,  
                        then keeps ticking.  
        the door stays locked,  
                        but the knocking doesn’t stop.  
        the phone keeps ringing,  
                        but no one picks up.  

       (were you expecting silence?)  

somewhere, the sun keeps rising.  
        somewhere, the city hums on.  
                but here—  
                           here, the world tilts,  
                                         the sky folds,  
                                                   the ground sinks beneath them.  

       a mother grips the doorknob,  
                      hand trembling like a faulty lightbulb.  
       a friend stares at the unread message,  
                      timestamped yesterday, 3:14 AM.  
       a lover traces the indent in the mattress,  
                      as if it were a wound that might still close.  

                     they always meant to check in.  
                     they always meant to call.  
                     they always meant to say—  

but meaning is a ghost,  
         and ghosts do not answer.  

       (are you listening?)  

   your name becomes an echo.  
                 a prayer, a question, a plea.  
   your room becomes an altar.  
                 untouched shirts, dust settling like snowfall.  
   your absence becomes a stain.  
                 not red. not blood. something paler, endless, unseen.  

       (is this what you wanted?)  

       the weight is gone,  
               but only for you.  
                     it latches onto their shoulders instead,  
                            vines curling, thick and unrelenting.  

   a sister walks slower.  
   a father speaks softer.  
   a friend laughs less.  

       (you left, but you did not leave alone.)  

       the world keeps turning,  
       the sun keeps rising,  
       the birds keep singing,  

       but for them, the light feels wrong,  
       the sky feels heavier,  
       and the music plays out of tune.  

       (quiet, isn't it?)  

              (but listen—someone is still crying.)

a slip and fall, busted up face,
an ambulance ride, cute young
docs, a his and her, in a busy ER
always apologizing for causing
any pain, and now again, in
another waiting room for the
specialist surgeon to,

make reperfect what was imperfect
naturally, seasoned and aged,
a face lovely and decanted,
a nice blush, though she looks now
a fresh mugging victim

and here I am, thinking about
all the waiting rooms in a long
life that I’ve called home, a temporal
temple abode, for waiting, praying
and now surmising and now, even for
composing

let’s not talk of bland, pastel colors
way past the over limit of blandness,
acoustic tile ceilings water stained,
and “leatherette”  furniture,
that no else ever wanted in their
life, all sent off to die in the classical,
traditional rooms for waiting

births, deaths, diagnoses, verdicts
delivered, way stops on a traveling
life

I walked into
An old building
Vacant yet
Lived in

I opened
Door after door
Peering into
New air

I realized
I was searching
For what was
To be

There were
No windows
On the doors
For a reason

I could not peer
Into the future
The past
Was futile

There was
No knowing
Left only to patterns
Or engagement

I could stop
Walking
The corridors
Of this wood abode

One more door
To go
What was next
Solitude or sorrows

As I stood alone
I met the room
With nothing to lose
No compass for death

I could be in the smallest room in the world and still feel small
I could be in the most open of fields and still see walls
I'm tiny, hunched down
Humility, but worse now
I'm drowning, but they love me
On the ground, it's killing me
But I still look up
Waiting for the sky
To
Fall
On
Me
There are waves on ceiling and they're stuck on green
Don't care for flowers so I picked dead leaves
There's a roof in my leak and stars on my wall
Pineapple lights but they won't turn on
There are words in my chest
And a man in my closet
Who throws my clothes off their hooks
Tells me to be honest
"Let that little girl out.
Turn the lights on.
Smile for more than a moment.
Or you'll be stuck in the smallest room in the world
Feeling small."

I was sent
to a dark room
From your words.
Littered on the couch
Spilled into the air
Dark-like smells
smudging and
Textures touching
With antipathy for being futile.
       Irrelevant.
That artifact of darkness

I know the unlit
The heavy
      immovable monolith of despair.
Fence sitting for days
In Wait for a shape of
intentional light.
Incremental, as it
Fractured the silence.
That burrowed through
Despondent dirt
down Here.

I saw you flick past
a sliver of
Shiny coins
Alarmed by their details,
Lost in remnants
Of absurdity
As the cloudless score
rounded the sharp
        edges
That softened
        your eyes
       as you peeked outside.

in the silence of my room… I
dance the loudest,
pray the longest
cry the ugliest,
laugh the modest,
dream the youngest,
stare at empty walls for promise,
break down the strongest,
overthink within a guilty conscience,
play out my scenarios worthy of their flowers
planting fields of doubt for all my anxieties
to have a fruitful harvest

in the silence of my room… I
am truly at my honest.

music is playing in the other room
music playing
in another room
music
in another room playing
a tune
disturbing my mood
from another room
invading my space
from somewhere else
another room
music
SHUT UP!!

i’m sitting in my empty room
where dreams run dry

i’m tossing in my empty room
so desperate for shuteye

i sit here in my room so cold
with heat turned on
by the glowing moon

i’ve seen this moon too many now
i often think we’re friends, oh wow!
but musn’t i be dumb to think
or ponder what my new friend speaks

or does he speak
for he’s the moon
he speaks to me
a silent tune.