Littoral

here is the air holding its throat in the doorway light folds against my cheek like a quiet instruction

somewhere a train exhales iron into the morning

somewhere the sea keeps a ledger i'm not allowed to read

i've lived inside ceilings that vibrate vents counting the room in mechanical breaths fluorescent bones buzzing their soft warning

i learned which corners let the body loosen which floors remember weight without complaint

i say the word home and the walls listen for papers

silence answers in triplicate

i sign my name the ink hesitates

once twice i sign again

the signature returns unfamiliar / the paper refuses the name

i carry a map made of salt and forgetting— it curls when handled edges dissolve on the tongue routes appear when i walk them barefoot and vanish when i turn

some rooms smell of rain and iron some keep their windows turned inward

i practice an ordinary face i practice the art of leaving slowly

a moth lands on my wrist i let it rest there

even light has teeth

i've lived inside many winds

under the concrete circuits singing

the radio in the air replies with snow / i try again / it hisses my name back wrong

i listen i pack i stay i leave

the body writes its own grammar forgets mid-sentence

breath interrupts and the page agrees

at night a corridor opens behind my ribs keys sleep in a bowl of water the suitcase won't close all the way

i press the lid down the hinges change their mind my name folded at the bottom like a shirt i no longer wear i remember someone once folded my collar like that

if rest exists it may be a hum with no owner a room that smells of rain after metal hands that do not count what they touch time without a checklist no barcode for longing no passport for breath

the air doesn't fall— it listens back