Words you say move across bedsheets silently. This moment becomes a thought that holds me like a ball of sheets, moves me, bridge-like, into others that fit.

You said, no more room for me here.

Room is an empty vesicle I fill with things, thoughts I empty out into rooms fill me now with their silence.

This space no longer fills us. We fill up slowly with the weight of its breath.

This bridge holds you, keeps you still as you cross, hold your breath, pick your feet up for good luck. Its weight takes yours like breath. You cross through its parts not aware of the lie. Eat your little egg breakfast, balance Early Grey to songs you sing in a tone that stays confined to these walls.

This is where you go to gather stories like acorns. History stands up to you on this spot as it passes.