Room with Weather

At midnight the rented room begins to breathe, wallpaper lifting like tide marks on a pier, the lamp pools amber over an unopened suitcase, and the mirror keeps a weather of old departures.

I set a glass on the sill; rain writes in braille across the pane, patient as a blind pianist. Somewhere below, a tram rounds the corner ringing one silver note through the wet street.

From the vent comes the smell of cut cedar and steam, as if a mountain workshop hid behind plaster. Nails of moonlight fasten the bed to the floor, dust rises softly, a choir of tiny planets.

By dawn the keycard is warm as a small animal. I leave; the corridor folds back into hush. Behind me the room rehearses my absence, making a nest of light where my shadow slept.