The House Exhales
The house exhales
as if it knows my name.
Floorboards sigh
under footsteps
that aren’t mine.
Shadows pool
in corners of memory,
slipping along walls
like smoke
from a fire long dead.
Your absence walks beside me—
soft, deliberate,
tracing ribs
with fingers made of frost.
I taste iron in the air,
hear your breath
between my own—
not violent,
just relentless.
Even the silence
wears your face;
the night
folds me
into its dark,
as if I’ve always belonged
to ghosts.
