i am wearing your shoes
that is how i enter the room.
they fit because you
left too quickly.
your floor watches
my steps
and asks nothing.
i lie down
in your bed
and rest
without listening
for what might come.
on the desk
your books wait
for a morning
that will not come.
outside, the street
pushes people forward,
deciding
who may cross
and who
must turn back.
i sleep
because i am allowed.
i remember how my own
shoes lie by another door,
i remember how another
may be wearing them now.
i wake and understand
how easily
lives are entered.
i return yours carefully,
still warm
inside.
