You say,
this is your world.
Neat,
manageable,
controllable.

I see you sitting
between lines and lists,
where every feeling
must have its place.

But what about the wind,
suddenly lifting the curtains?
The memory
that comes
without asking?

I wonder
if you still dream,
when everything stays
just as you want it.

Or have you learned
to put even dreams
in drawers?