I’ve been thinking about rooms lately.
Not only literal rooms, but the inner ones too. The spaces we close the door on. The places where old conversations, objects, versions of ourselves, and things left unsaid quietly remain.
Some rooms are almost empty. Some are full of what we could not say at the time. Some hold a box in a drawer, a mountain afternoon, or a silence we’ve learned to live beside.
These three poems are about those spaces: the rooms we leave behind, the rooms we carry with us, and the stories that keep waiting there.
The Quiet Rooms
What happens in the quiet rooms,
the spaces in between?
Where no sound is heard
through walls of white,
no scent is smelled,
no outside view.
Where the stories
we tell ourselves
go safely to rest.
A Conversation Between Trees
The day we went up the mountain
the sun grazed my palm,
my fingers curling shut.
The town lay spread before us,
holding its breath in the heat.
No wind could reach us—
the air dense and still.
You kicked a stone downhill,
dust rising in its wake.
The leaves still whisper
the words we left behind.
That is how
our story came to be:
a conversation
between trees.
And all that remains unsaid
finds a place
among the shelves.
The Box
In my bedroom drawer
there is a box I never open.
It waits in silence,
whispering my name.
It speaks of moments
tucked away —
of claims unspoken,
and photographs
long laid to rest.
A locket of gold,
a letter folded twice,
a scarf I wore
when my hair
fell freely down.
At night,
it hums in my ears,
a presence
I never invited.
A part of me
still fears the lid —
yet something waits
for the day
I let it breathe.
I think we all have rooms like this.
Not always visible. Not always easy to name. But they are there — behind a closed door, inside a drawer, between trees, beneath the surface of an ordinary day.
Maybe leaving a room behind does not always mean forgetting it.
Sometimes it means letting it stay where it is, until we are ready to return.
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