The Room Where I Left It

There is a room in me

nobody visits anymore.

The door is still there—

I painted over it once,

but doors remember themselves.

I used to go in

and sit with the thing on the floor.

I don't know what it was.

I only know

it had my hands.

Now I walk the hall

very quietly,

pretending the wall is just a wall,

pretending the cold that bleeds through

is only winter,

is only the house

growing old.