My house has four rooms
and I have mistaken each one
for a chamber of the heart.
The kitchen keeps what burns.
The bedroom keeps what enters.
The hallway keeps footsteps
long after they are gone.
The last room
is always closed.
I tell people
it is storage.
I tell myself
the same thing.
But sometimes at night
I hear it beating—
that low, stubborn sound
inside the walls,
keeping the whole house alive
from a room
I never open.
Mari Sánchez Cayuso 
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