Before Anyone Arrives

From the same room, light enters.
Barely.
A warmth washes over the floor.

I keep thinking I’m here to write.
But the room keeps asking me to listen.
Staying, observing.

Light, sound, cadence.
The passing of time.
Songs linger just out of reach.

As I stay, I notice a pattern.
From one room, I imagine another
before anyone arrives.

For a moment, I feel the doubt.
Then I notice it switches,
like the gears of a clock.

Each day, the same thing.
Wake, atmosphere, repeat.

I stayed long enough
to hear what the room was asking for.

Not urgency.
Not more sound.
Just attention
settling into the body.

Some shapes held.
Others asked to be set down.

Care showed up first —
in posture,
in breath,
in choosing when not to push.

Before anything arrived.
Before direction.

Just staying long enough
to listen to what wanted to stay.