The Language of Keys
keys do not unlock doors anymore
they translate them
each turn carries a meaning
I cannot fully inherit
grief, maybe
or weather folded into metal
I keep them in my pocket
like small unfinished sentences
they clink softly
arguing among themselves
about which rooms
I am still allowed to enter
some doors respond
by becoming heavier
as if remembering too much
others open too easily
which is worse
because nothing waits inside
except the echo
of having been expected
I begin to understand
that access was never the point
only listening
to what the lock refuses to say
Domestic Astronomy
the ceiling studies me at night
mapping my breathing
into faint constellations
none of them are named
yet they insist on existing
a star misfires behind plaster
then corrects itself
as if embarrassed
the room becomes a slow orbit
around my stillness
even the furniture tilts
toward invisible gravity
I lie awake
listening to the architecture think
about expansion
about holding shape
about what it means
for light to remain
after its source has changed its mind
somewhere above me
darkness is being organized
into patterns I almost recognize
but never learned to read
Afterimage of a Doorway
every doorway I pass through
leaves a second version of me behind
standing just slightly out of focus
like a thought that forgot its ending
sometimes I hear it breathe
when the house settles
as if it is practicing my life
without committing to it
doors do not close
they hesitate
and in that hesitation
I multiply
not forward
but sideways
into versions that never fully arrive
I start to suspect
that leaving is not motion
but repetition
and I am always
somewhere in the middle of it
still deciding
whether to follow myself through
Khayelihle Benghu is a South African writer working across poetry and short-form prose. Their work explores perception, memory, and the quiet distortions of everyday life through image-driven and atmospheric writing
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