Rooms I’ve Lived In

There’s a room where I loved him. One where I left. One where I wept so hard I peeled the wallpaper with my breath. They all still exist, stacked like folders in some forgotten drawer inside me. I blink through them at night. Some rooms smell like him. Some smell like me before him. I never open the closet in the yellow one. I never sit down in the green one. But I always stay in the smallest one as long as I can, the one where I said nothing, where silence was my greatest lover. That’s the room that still knows my name.