I sit noticing the imperfections of the room. It is empty. There is no need to fill it. Cables and broken closet doors, carpet and white painted walls, embrace a light that passes and warms. The room is empty, there is no need to fill it. Much like memory warms as it flickers through the dirty pane. Remember, the door leads out into the hallway. The master bedroom is at the end, just past the broken bathroom – the only one of the four with any furniture.
This room is warm, brightly illuminated with winter’s light. The tree outside bare, its branches much like arms, reaching through the rectangles and squares on the floor. How they contrast the circular knob of the door or the black snake of a cable, freeing itself from the confines of the wall. The carpet is new, stiff, cheap. I mark time noticing the light pass and the tree sway. The dog scratches at the door. He doesn’t understand why I am inside. The room is empty, except for me, with the cables, closet doors and cheap carpet. The room is filled with breath.