Hollow wood hums in bones,
a dresser full of empty hands.
The window does not blink,
held open by lines that forget the weight of glass.
Somewhere, a door curls into itself,
a birdcage with no latch,
a television swallowing its own static.
Memory stacks itself like bricks,
but the mortar is breath,
is the slow hush of paper-thin walls.
Lie down.
The mattress knows your name,
or something close to it.
Even if city does not.
