A Fly on the Wall, a Wallflower

I have learned the geometry of rooms that were not built to include me,
the way two people make a wall with their bodies without meaning to,
the radius of a laugh that only opens for certain people.
I am still measuring.

I dreamed I walked into a room and became part of the furniture.
Someone set their coat across my shoulders and left a drink beside my hand.
The wallpaper merger across my spine
but nobody noticed anything strange.

By midnight I could tell which laugh belonged to whom
even from across the room.
I knew who would leave first.
Whose cigarette would burn untouched.
Which goodbye was a promise and which was already past keeping.

The chairs were stacked before I left. Someone switched off the lights.
In the dark, the room looked finished.
Only then did I fit inside.