In the House of Shadows

"The dead are never gone, they lean in the silence."

In the hollow rooms of memory

I gather what remains:

a jacket folded,

a watch unwound,

the scent of rosemary pressed into wood.

✦

The wind pauses at the threshold,

its breath heavy with absence.

The walls remember laughter,

the floorboards carry every step.

✦

I kneel among boxes of journals,

the ink still alive with pulse,

a father’s script,

a mother’s margin-notes.

Even silence blooms with voices

when touched by the hand.

✦

I gather them gently,

not as relics,

but as seeds.

Loss is not empty—

it is a furrow.

Memory is what grows.