Empty Map

The map is a house without doors.
On the sheets, corridors where no wind blows.
Here begins the dream, here you already know how to remember.
The empty rooms trace minimal routes.
Every line is a memory that opens and drifts away.
A clock’s beat is the compass of the path.
The kitchen is a memory that no longer cooks.
The bedroom is a veil of lights that do not ignite.
On the floor, footprints of steps that don’t return.
Yet the map breathes when you close your eyes.
Routes return between dream and memory, with new names.
And you remain on the margin, ready to traverse them again.