A room for after.
A wooden table.
Two cups, not labeled.
A small stack of papers cooling at one edge.
A card with a door drawn on it.
A window. A thin line of green.
A chair, pulled back.
You may put the work down here.
It will not vanish because you stop holding it.
Not every true thing has to travel.
Not every resting thing is abandoned.
Not every meeting needs to become useful.
· · ·
Nothing here is completed.
Everything here may rest.
The door was already open.