Rue McKeagney

I leave a fine dusting of skin cells on the surface of each tile. I graze my fingertips along the wall and leave a trace of myself there too. A string to follow back, a claim of authorship, the wallet that fell from my pocket. I spend enough hours in these halls so as to render the word ‘hour’ obsolete. We measure now in breaths — held, then exhaled gently, so as not to cause a collapse. At each fork in the pathway, I look back and find the walls have merged into an endless horizon. Ahead, the labyrinth continues.