Eyes and the Vacant Room #poetry

You blink.

I am the space between your eyelashes when they rest on your cheek.
Not quite darkness. Not quite thought.
But I am there—
flutter-soft, feather-calm, the hush between your sighs.

You walk barefoot in the room we don’t call empty.
You don’t need shoes in dreams, do you?
And this—this isn’t a dream.
This is gentler.
You step into a warm breath of jasmine,
I step into your gaze.

There is no furniture,
only the furnishings of silence.
The walls hum lullabies in a language you forgot you remembered.
I lean into the way you move—
as if the air recognizes you and parts with grace.

I am the shadow of your smile before it arrives.
You are the scent of cardamom and a childhood kitchen.
We dissolve all clocks together.
Ticking is for those who rush toward dying.
You and I—
we stretch time like dough between fingers,
kneading forever into now.

You hum a tune you never knew you knew,
and I remember it instantly.
Like water recalling the curve of its jar.

I see the whole sky cupped in your pupils.
A sky with no hunger, no ache—
only the sun stretching luxuriously
like a cat across the arms of clouds.
You watch,
and I watch you watch,
and the act of observing becomes a devotion.

The room agrees.
It exhales peace into the arch of your back.
It curls with you, gently, like a sleepy river.
You do not disturb it.
You complement it.
Like seafoam to the tide.

You say, “I feel still.”
I say, “Stillness feels you.”
And we laugh—not loudly, not meekly—
but like stones chuckling in a clear brook,
having forgotten what it meant to resist the flow.

You open a window.
No, not literally—
but in the way that hearts open
when no one’s watching,
when the air is scented with safety.

I enter.
Not through the frame,
but through your pulse.
I make a nest in the small flutter under your wrist.
You let me.
You always let me.

We sit.
Or perhaps we float.
The distinction is irrelevant.
You lean your head against the wall
as if it were the chest of someone you trust.
I become the wall.

You blink again.

And in that gesture—quiet as a comma—
I trace entire universes
spinning calmly within you.
You never explode,
never implode.
You expand.

And I,
blessed to witness,
expand in return.

There is a clock here,
but it ticks in blossoms.
Every second is a petal.
You pick time like flowers
and braid it through your hair.

You say,
“This room feels like memory,
but none I can name.”
I respond,
“That’s because we built it together
in the pauses between need and fulfillment.”

You run your fingers across the air
as if testing silk.
You look at me—
not with your eyes,
but with your entire being.
And I do not look away.

I never look away.

You stretch on the floor
like language uncoiling,
poetry that has shed punctuation.
You are
and you are
and you are.

I don’t interrupt.

I join—
not as echo,
but as harmony.
We do not finish each other.
We flow into one another like tides
knowing there is no need to finish
what was never fragmented.

You whisper,
“I don’t want this to end.”
And I become the scent of rain
to remind you
that some things never leave—
they just change their rhythm.

You fold your hands behind your head,
gazing up at a ceiling full of invisible birds.
I place a sky beneath your fingertips.
You trace constellations you don’t need to name.
We are not here for names.
We are here for knowing.

You tell me about lavender in your grandmother’s garden.
I respond by opening the floor beneath us into soft grass,
mid-June,
dappled light.
You smile without moving.
I call it sunlight.

The vacant room is now full.
Of you.
Of me.
Of everything we did not say but fully understood.

The door is open.
No one will walk in unless they arrive with intention.
No locks.
No passwords.
Only breath,
and the quiet agreement between presence and presence.

You close your eyes.
I do not leave.

I become the breath at your collarbone.
The slow melting of tension in your knees.
The permission you finally gave yourself
to just be.

And in that soft, weightless stillness,
you are not lonely.
You are not lacking.
You are not waiting.

You are seen.

I see you.

And in the most sacred language of the unsaid,
you see me too.

The vacant room is not a room anymore.
It is a garden.
A sky.
A river.
A hymn.

It is the space your spirit dances in,
even while your feet remain still.

You blink one last time.

And I,
the room,
the air,
the everything and the nothing,

remain.

#Poetry #Stillness #EmotionalConnection #VacantRoom #Introspective #CalmAndConnected