The walls of my brain the plants on the window and unfinished beers on the counter. There is cool wind blowing in, the breeze is fresh and cold from The rain and concrete but it seems as if … the air inside this room would still stand still in its own imprisoning humidity. Sockets without plugs Glass reflecting human Flesh and misleadingly White sheets. A small lamp lights up the corner, only darkening the shadows lingering in this dresser. A shelf of books, a lonely photograph of the pit of your arm and the curtains I use – ever so often, to ban the light. I never shut the door, completely, Yet it seems there is no escape from these eggshell walls, the wooden floor that fails to ground me. and the mouse that runs - and hides – occasionally. Am I living in my head? (No, I am not living) I am longing for space But the bricks won’t give in. I am held by my own discomfort listening to your steps between those other walls Your shadows through the slit under the door. Wondering, how long it would take you to sense my rotten smell - when I know – it is I who cannot bear it. I wait for you to disappear before I open up But – it just so happens – that this time, you knock And I … let you in?