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Letters

Letters describe a moment where time stretches—
stairs growing longer with each season,
yet the house doesn’t change.

Names slip—
spoken and lost, like coins in a torn pocket,
clinking faintly in empty halls.

Mornings are misplaced,
folded into tired afternoons.
The calendar lies blank, scraped raw,
its edges powdered with erased plans.

Memory‑lanterns fog up,
their flames sputtering wax into silent rooms.
Rooms hollow as unbreathed ribs,
their emptiness pressing in.

The speaker moves,
each step a test of balance,
each pause a fight to recall a name.
The body grows heavy.

But the space between heartbeats—
this quiet is still known,
accessing memory of the next unknown.      

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