random inaccess
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 lost in a torn pocket—
clinking faintly in empty halls.
Mornings are misplaced,
slipped into tired afternoons.
The calendar lies blank,
scraped raw,
its edges powdered with erased plans.
Looking‑glass memory fogs up,
reflections blur and scatter
across the silent rooms.
Rooms hollow
as unbreathed ribs,
their emptiness pressing in.
The speaker moves,
each step testing balance,
each pause a fight to recall a name.
The body grows heavy.
But the space between heartbeats—
this quiet nestles within its cage.
.