The rooms I build

I build whole cities in the quiet of my skull, streets paved with long-forgotten wishes, doors that open into rooms where every mirror shows a softer face of me. The world outside is blunt, its edges cut like broken glass but inside, rivers run backward, time bends like smoke, and no one asks why I vanish while staring at the wall. I tell myself: just one more chapter, but the story keeps swelling, a tide that knows no shore. Every breath, every blink, becomes a stitch in a tapestry no hand will ever touch. I dance with ghosts who never leave me, kiss the lips of lovers who never lived, and cradle the life I never dared to claim. When the dream fades, it leaves me hollow a house with furniture made of fog. And yet I return, again and again, to the rooms I build from silence, because here I am infinite, because here I am whole.