🔌

hollowed out and quiet,
the days are just rooms
i walk through
because the doors happen to be open.

there is no gold at the end of the hall,
no sudden light,
just the steady hum of the furnace
and the shadows stretching
at four in the afternoon.

i am a vessel with the plug pulled,
light as a dried leaf,
floating not because i have a destination,
but because the air is moving
and i am still here to be moved.

no mountain to climb,
no breath to catch,
no star to shine.

just the slow, gray peace
of existing
without needing a reason why.