I walk in barefoot,
carpet soft beneath my feet,
to the writing room that remembers me.
The walls are breathing chord progressions,
old hymns stitched to electric dust.
Music wails like a benediction,
my pulse lowering into place.
I left for reasons that felt holy at the time.
Silence masquerading as wisdom,
rest pretending to be distance.
But the room never mistook my absence for goodbye.
Here, the light leans cobalt and forgiving.
Poems wait like patient witnesses,
unfinished sentences tapping their fingers,
Ready.
The words grow in volume in my head,
like a hand on my shoulder
and a hand at my back.
Guiding me forward without pushing.
Reminding me that creation is not urgency,
but return.
I breathe out.
The room exhales with me.
And the words,
they come home.