Letters and Dust

Letters and Dust

I open the old chest in the corner,

dust motes drifting like tiny specters,

letters and photographs spill into my lap,

each one a fragment of the life we had.

I read them slowly, savoring each word,

feeling your presence in the faded ink,

and yet they lie cold in my hands,

reminders of time I cannot reclaim.

The floorboards creak beneath my careful steps,

as if the house remembers the life we shared,

I linger among the ghosts of laughter,

my fingers brushing air where you once stood.

A candle flickers, casting trembling light,

its glow a small defiance against shadows,

I lean closer, letting warmth seep into me,

holding the fragile comfort it provides.

Hours pass in quiet contemplation,

and I remain tethered to the whispers of love,

finding solace in their gentle persistence,

even as the world outside moves on.