She walks through the rooms of my sleep
and leaves her footprints in the walls.

She is the weight of my silence,
the climate of my throat,
the door I open without knowing
what I am letting in.

Her absence is a room I keep furnished.

She does not knock. She does not need to.

In the dark she is the dark,
and in the light she is the reason
the light keeps failing.

I have no name for what she is.
I only know that when she is gone,
I am the one who is missing.

:: 09.09.2026 ::