The Room Holds Poem by Henrietta Ezegbe

Morning finds me set.
The room holds.
Chairs face forward.
The floor does not shift.
Neither do I.

The light does not correct itself.
I cross the room
and nothing follows that should not.
Walls remember their purpose.

In my sight, even objects learn stillness.
As do conversations.
Sound adjusts its distance.
Silence keeps its shape.

The floor receives my weight
without rehearsal.
The ground is familiar with this exchange
Just like it recalls my past mis-steps.

For a moment
something almost moves.
A draft.
A thought.
A name I do not say.
It settles
before earning consequence.

My name is said once
and remains.
Placed carefully,
as if it could bruise.

Questions loosen their grip.
I stand where the air thins slightly,
enough to clear the unnecessary,
not enough to ask for more.

Time arranges itself nearby.
Nothing here is borrowed.
Nothing is rushed.

When I speak,
the moment has already decided
still, my voice surprises me.
When I leave,
nothing needs to follow.

It stays
aligned,
undisturbed,
intact.