I open the door fearfully
to draw a border on the carpet
with the sun rays.
I feel like saying something
but the echo of the unfurnished room
is faster than me.
The sweat on the doorknob is not mine
nor do the lichens on my neck
belong to this world.
I realized myself
in several layers of memories,
my soul is a womb palimpsest
of a distant mother.
Hence the afterthought of returning
and the soft creak of the hinges.
I would expand the space with a step
to multiply the grains of dust
and the hairs that fall down,
always white because of
the light.