There lies a hinge beneath my breast,

of brass once bright, now scorched and green.

It creaks in time with dreams unblessed,

and leaks a sound no soul has seen.

The walls are soft, but not of flesh—

they pulse like wires soaked in brine.

They twist and knot, then stretch afresh—

a lattice born of fault and spine.

The rafters groan with mirrored beams,

each plank a vow that bent then broke.

The angles shift between the seams—

the math undone by words you spoke.

A spindle hums behind the eye,

its gears affixed with bone and thread.

It winds a thought I can’t deny,

and plays the tune of what you said.

Behold—a room that loops in square,

its corners curved, its ceiling low.

Each exit leads to vacant stair,

and every stair descends to woe.

The candles burn with ashless wick,

their wax runs cold, their light misled.

They mark the hour with ticking trick—

a clock that dreams it’s long since dead.

The windows blink with woven shade,

their panes imbibed with watching mist.

They mouth your name in glass decayed,

then vanish when they would be kissed.

A pipe extends through velvet floor,

it bleeds not water but lament.

Its valves recall the dress you wore,

and drip with scent your absence lent.

The hearth exhales a hollow flame,

its smoke a web of time misspent.

It sings, but none recall the name

of love before it came and went.

The stairwell coils like serpent’s grin,

its railing carved in grieving bark.

It bites the heel, then folds within—

a spiral too obscure to mark.

The door you closed is nailed in place,

but creaks each time I dare be still.

Its hinges weep in time and space,

and rust where once you drank your fill.

A mirror hung by thread and pin

reflects a face not known by skin.

It changes shape with every grin—

and smiles where the cracks begin.

The garden blooms with porcelain fruit,

each stem affixed with sharpened nail.

They whisper through a mouth made mute,

and bruise the hand that lifts the veil.

A fountain churns with letters scrawled

in ink distilled from severed lore.

They circle, pulse, then are forestalled—

each phrase more fractured than before.

The final room—a choirless nave,

its walls enrobed in mouths sewn shut.

Their hymns entomb what I forgave,

and echo through a throat long cut.

And I, the architect of wrong,

enthroned in marrow, stitched in ache—

I hear you in the pipes’ sad song,