A Room that Dreams You Back

Last night, the room forgot its corners.

Walls sagged like tired lungs,

breathing in a language made of dust.

The ceiling lowered itself

to listen to your thoughts,

then mispronounced them into moths.

You tried to leave —

but the door had learned your name

and refused to be anyone else’s exit.

Your reflection arrived late,

wearing yesterday’s expression.

It watched you carefully,

as if memorizing

how to become you

when you finally went missing.

The floor softened.

Each step sank into a childhood memory

you do not recall living —

a birthday with no faces,

a candle that screamed when lit,

a wish that wished you back.

Time pooled in the corners,

thick and unmoving.

You touched it.

It recoiled.

Somewhere inside the walls,

something practiced your laugh

until it sounded human.

You lay down to wake up —

but the bed unfolded into a horizon,

and the sky tucked you in

with hands that had too many joints.

Just before sleep —

or whatever rehearses as sleep —

the room leaned close and whispered:

You are the dream

we are trying to survive.

And for a moment,

you understood why hope

feels like an intruder