The Room Still Knows You

I didn't keep your name. The room did. It waits in

the grain of the table, in the chair that leans. A fraction toward

where you used to sit. You never signed anything out. You never had

to. Some things are borrowed by being near them. I've watched strangers

pause here without knowing why. They blame the light. They blame the

dust. They never blame memory. Your name doesn't echo.

It settles. It rests behind the clock between the second and the decision

to keep going. I tried once to move the furniture. The room