Floor-Level Dreams

The mattress lies flat,

bare, edges frayed and catching on the scuffed wood.

It sighs with every shift,

a creak in the night, restless and half awake.

Outside, the neighbor's door slams hard,

a quick goodbye that rattles the thin walls.

I fold into this patch of floor,

a temporary home, a patchwork of sleep and noise.

Here, dreams lean close,

breath tangled in the stale air,

pressed low beneath the weight of years

and the soft ache of things not settled.

I trace the stain that refuses to leave,

and wonder if this ground will ever hold me

like it should.