I rarely look—

not because I forget,

but perhaps

because I remember

too much.

Maybe I’m tired

of this same face,

or maybe
 I’ve buried
myself
 too deep.

But today,

I stood there—

still.
Noticing:

grey threads

woven into black,

eyes that drift,

yet seem

to listen.
Lips —

quiet,

waiting.

Then it asked:

Where were you
 all this time?
I listened.

I searched for an answer.

I wasn’t away,

I said.
You dug deep—

it whispered.

What did you find?

Nothing to show,

I replied.

Only this knowing:

there are still

so many rooms

within me,

unlit.

Some truths

must ripen

before they shine.

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.