When the lights go out, room forgets its name,
the clock goes blind, while windows hold their breath…
we cancel maps, step off the edge of “same,”
and let the dark rehearse our hidden depth.

The bed becomes a harbor—small, then wide,
the night turns rain—we answer with a hymn…
sheets learning tides, quiet walls lean aside—
and distance folds like laundry, tucked within.

By three, the moon hung towels on a chair…
shipwrecked with laughter, sweet and dizzy doubt,
I manned the couch with borrowed robes to spare,
a quiet raft the storm left circling ’bout.

Come morning, life turned ordinary 'gain—
yet that space still hums our names at lights-out.