Elena Rotzokou
Sleep Study
I.
Last night the house inhaled before I did—
not loudly,
just a low rehearsal in the beams,
a throat-clearing of timber and tin.
I lay awake and counted out the space
between my ribs
and the room’s reply.
The ceiling lowered its measure of height.
The walls withheld their weather.
Inside the wiring filament fretted—
a thin bright nerve
refusing rest.
II.
I have begun to think structures practice us,
rehearse our outlines in our absence.
Absence is never empty—
it is padded,
a draft of flesh awaiting revision.
III.
Morning light leaned wrong in the kitchen,
a blade loose in its handle.
The spoon inclined toward the cup.
The cup edged toward the counter’s lip.
Everything mid-fall, mid-thought.
I said good morning to the quiet.
The quiet answered in my register,
slightly improved.
IV.
A doctor once told me sleep rehearses loss.
He said it softly, as if loss were silk.
I began sleeping crosswise,
refusing the clean geometry of rest.
The mattress recalculated.
It pressed back
with patient pressure.
V.
Now when I breathe I leave a margin wide
enough for a second draft of air.
When I exhale, I listen for the edit.
Sometimes the room inhales before I do.
Sometimes it completes what I begin.
VI.
This afternoon I found a fracture in the plaster
running the length of the hallway wall—
so fine it felt like syntax testing break.
I pressed my ear against the seam.
On the other side
something was practicing my voice—
not copying,
not echoing—
replacing the source.
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