The Room Where I Wait

I sit in a room

where nothing moves —

except my breath

and a small memory

that knocks like a stranger.


The fan hums like a prayer

I never learned.

The walls don’t talk,

but they listen.

More than anyone ever did.


I don’t cry.

I just sit.

Like I’ve always done.

Like the chair knows me

better than my own hands.


Some days,

I think the light left me.

But then a soft breeze touches my face

and reminds me —

I’m still here.


I’m still here.

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