Glass Diary

In my sphere I register voiceless hours,
tracing light trails that translate the rooms’ soft sighs.
Carpets dispatch dusty missives, curtains learn the wind’s alphabet,
every piece of furniture remains a sentence held for a waiting hand.
I dream of windows opening like ocean mouths,
unmade steps bend into corners of memory.
When they extinguish me, the dreams stretch out like shadow maps,
I stay a silent diary, counting days upon a glass thread.