THE VAULT
- Jun 6
- 1 min read
By Maryam Imogen Ghouth
There is a room beneath the noon—no clocks, no sun.
We fold morning into a coin, slip it under the tongue,
enter with pockets full of hours.
Outside the city bargains
with horns and flyers.
We learn the economy of absence: how
to make a day vanish
between two breaths.
Sometimes life asks for me back:
I hand myself over as a crumpled note.
I carry in my chest the debt of having been gone,
but I like the red lights that rain,
the downward spiral,
the velvet dark that makes
the outside world seem normal.
But then I fear the favour—the way the vault
keeps me small so it may keep me longer.
One day I will return home at night,
count streets with my bare feet,
see my steps with eyes that sleep,
my will large enough to break
the door that locks.