The Man Who Passed Through My Head

The Man Who Passed Through My Head

He did not knock, he did not breathe,

he entered like a cold thought slipping,

through bone, through silence, through the thin place,

where memory weakens and something watches.

I felt him before I knew him,

a pressure behind the eyes, a tightening,

like a shadow learning the shape of my skull,

like footsteps pacing inside my mind.

His voice was not a voice,

it pressed without sound, without mercy,

a knowing that was not mine,

a presence that leaned too close to truth.

I tried to turn, to shake him loose,

but he had no weight to throw away,

he stretched through every corner of thought,

sat quietly in places I once called mine.

My hands felt distant, unreal,

as though he wore them better than I did,

as though my pulse answered to him,

as though my breath had been borrowed.

He showed me things I never asked to see,

dark rooms with no doors, no endings,

faces turned away forever,

and a mirror that would not return me.

I whispered stop, I begged in silence,

but he did not leave, not yet,

he lingered like something unfinished,

like a warning stitched into the brain.

Then suddenly, without farewell,

he slipped out the way he came,

leaving behind a hollow echo,

and the fear that he remembers me.

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