Wasn’t the dresser just here?
And the pictures, had they come off their frames?

Glanced to find the windows no longer open,
only a dark film stretched where they used to be.

Spoke, “wait,” to the hollow room to listen,
but only felt a harsh gust rush through under my feet.

The wind ran across again, disrupting:
shifting what has been since left unspoken,

Stirring old letters, unhinging the cupboards
that have held on to memories for too long.

So, down came the mugs and plates, all they once could hold,
turning nostalgic pieces into shards of sharp pines all over the floor.

For a moment, the spill left nowhere to stand until the wind stirred again.
Stripping the wood floor, uprooting the concrete foundation,

until below became the clouded,
thick air.

I couldn’t tell where each foot was going,
I didn’t fall, but was unsure to make a step

certain—the room doesn’t want me here—
knowing that my eyes have been wandering.

And when my mind fails to stay put
Home wearily chooses to drift away too.

The walls finally withered and crumbled,
there the whole world was open to me

But I got caught, tangled in the doorway,
suspended by an old long thread of hair

It was snagged on something I’ve never noticed before.
There, above the door frame, the word, “choice” creaking like a loose nail.