THE OCCUPIED ROOM

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 ::