Same room,
same sun folding in.
Clothes like soft ruins
on the edge of silence,
plastic ghosts on the floor,
a duvet, bare-

a forgotten sea.
No voice.
No message.
Only the hush of a life undisturbed.

Some might call it empty.
But this— this is root.
Walls carry breath, corners hold memory like dust in light.
Everything begins here, or disappears—
my own
Bermuda of becoming.

It may not speak to others.
But it speaks to me.
And perhaps
that's all that matters—
to belong, to yourself.