The Hollow Bureau

My heart is a locked filing cabinet, its drawers emptied of feeling. No pulse of joy, no sting of grief— just the rustle of papers, blank and neatly folded. I sit in a room of endless corridors, each door labeled nothing. I knock, but no one answers. The air is a clerk, stamping my days with silence. Love, rage, hope— they were forms I once filled out,TL now lost in some archive of dust. The mirror reflects a stranger, his eyes like inkless pens. I trace the lines of his face, searching for a tremor, a spark— but the page is blank. The world hums its demands, a machine that prints only noise. I turn away, preferring the gray of my cell. Time is a ledger, its entries all the same: No response. No response. I am a signature faded to a smudge, a man who walks because he must, through halls where no feeling lives.