In a room without memory,
beneath a ceiling of breathless time,
a chair unthreads itself in
silence— wood to ash, ash to absence.

Once it bore the weight of stories,
of cigarettes smoked in despair,
of pauses between two strangers
who no longer met each other’s eyes.

Now no voice disturbs the dust.
No light declares the hour.
It forgets its purpose,
sinking into white stillness.

Not broken—
but becoming undone.
Each crack a failing clock,
each leg a question.

Even objects mourn their meaning
when time refuses to remember.

—JON.E.B. | Unbeing