The Man in the Corridor

The Man in the Corridor

He stands where the light forgets the house,

leaning into corners that should be empty,

his shape not fully formed, not fully gone,

like breath held too long in a dying room.

I hear him when the floor stops speaking,

when even the clock refuses to tick,

there is a hush that settles wrong,

and I know he has arrived again.

He does not knock, he does not call,

he simply becomes part of the air,

a weight that presses into my thoughts,

until I cannot tell what is mine.

The mirror does not show him straight,

only angles where something should be,

a reflection that bends too far,

like truth refusing to stay still.

I turn away but the turning is slow,

as if the room resists my movement,

and in that delay I feel him closer,

not walking, but already there.

The corridor stretches longer at night,

like it remembers things I forget,

each step I take feels borrowed,

each breath feels slightly delayed.

He waits like he has all the time,

like I am the one running out of it,

and every silence he leaves behind

sounds almost like my name.

When morning comes, nothing is solved,

he is not gone, just less visible,

as if daylight only hides him better,

not takes him away.

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