I fold a theatre into a case,
but leave one hinge unfastened for the rain.
The stairs remember every footfall
without pretending anyone remains.
Here is the curtain, copper at its edges.
Here is the lamp, a amber seed.
Here is the thread that wandered through the rafters
and found the missing place beneath a seat.
I thought a home was everything assembled,
a roof, a door that knew its frame.
Then one loose page arrived across the table,
and all the silent furniture made space.
Not every part can travel at the same speed.
The painted moon is drying by the wall.
I keep its empty hook beside the window;
an absent thing still has somewhere to fall.
Outside, the puddles borrow passing headlights.
Inside, a staircase rises through my palm.
I will not call this finished while the music
has yet to find the room that holds its song.
But I can tie the curtain to its runner,
set down the lamp, make shelter for the thread.
A small stage waits inside an open suitcase,
not lost, not whole, but faithfully prepared.
And when the moon arrives, no second theatre:
its waiting nail will welcome it instead, home.
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