The Room That Knows Me

Every night
my room becomes slightly different.
Not enough to see
enough to feel.

The door closes softer
than I remember.
My chair faces the bed
though I never turned it.
And the celling fan
keeps spinning
after the switch is off.

I told myself
memory is unreliable.
But memory doesn't breathe.

Around 3:12 AM
the silence grows heavier,
like the air is waiting
for me to notice something.

So I pretend to sleep.
Because the moment
I open my eyes too long
I feel it

The room
watching back.
Not haunted.
Not alive.
Just aware
that I am inside it.

Yesterday
my phone lit up
with no notification.
Only my gallery open.

A photo I never took:
Me sleeping.
From the corner
near the ceiling.
I deleted it.

Tonight
the corner feels closer.
I understand now.
The room isn't changing.