The Room With No Light

The Room With No Light

In the corner, a chair that remembers all.

Its fabric worn thin by prayer and time.

Dust gathers softly on the edges of the air,

and something unseen hums beneath the quiet.

A candle once burned here, slow and faithful,

but even the wax gave up its shape.

The shadows still kneel where the flame once was,

folding their hands in silence.

Outside, the rain presses its face to the glass,

as if trying to be let in.

It does not know that sorrow already lives here,

and that it too has learned to whisper.

Night bends around the house,

gentle and cruel at once.

I breathe, and the air remembers grief,

but it does not let me forget.