Hollow House, Hollow Heart

The light spills in through broken panes,

fractured beams slicing the dust-heavy air,

as if trying to answer the questions

I never had the courage to ask.

A dollhouse, slumped in the corner,

its wooden bones brittle,

its miniature rooms still lined with ghosts.

They linger in the peeling wallpaper,

in the tiny chairs that no longer hold

even the weight of a dream.

Once, a bird nested in the rafters,

a whisper of wings disturbing the silence.

I envied it—its freedom, its ability

to slip between spaces,

to leave when the air turned thick with sorrow.

But I stayed.

Like the furniture, like the dust,

like the forgotten things that wait

for hands that will never return.

The floor groans beneath me,

the echo of a voice I once knew—

a voice that called my name

as if I were something worth remembering.

But even thunder forgets its own echo

once the storm has passed.

I trace the cracks in the wood,

fingers slipping over splintered edges,

reading the history of a home

that never held me right.

The attic breathes, a slow, sighing thing,

and I think of how loss makes a place expand,

makes every empty chair a monument,

every shadow a lingering hand.

Somewhere outside, the world moves forward,

but here, time is stagnant,

a bird with broken wings,

a question with no answer.