Cold Room at the Top of the Stairs

Cold Room at the Top of the Stairs

There is a room above the house,

where warmth refuses to stay inside,

no matter how long the fire burns,

it always returns to cold again.

The stairs creak like they remember,

each step a warning I cannot ignore,

as if the wood has learned my fear,

and speaks it back under my weight.

The door is never fully closed,

but it never opens for me either,

it sits in that in between place,

where something waits without moving.

Inside, the air feels too still,

like it has been held underwater,

thick with a silence that is not empty,

but full of things not saying anything.

A chair rocks without permission,

slow, like it is tired of time,

and every creak feels deliberate,

as if it remembers being pushed.

The walls are marked with old shapes,

not writing, but almost writing,

like hands tried to leave messages

but forgot how to finish them.

I do not stay long in that room,

yet every time I leave it feels wrong,

as if something has followed me out,

and learned the shape of my steps.

At night I hear it above again,

even when I am far below,

a presence sitting where no one sits,

waiting for me to return.

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