The Walls Are Warm

The walls are warm

not with heat,

but with memory.

They remember every back that leaned against them,

every argument that softened into silence,

every laugh that hit the ceiling

and fell back down, changed.

At night, they breathe.

You can feel it

when the house goes quiet

and your thoughts grow loud.

The walls hold the echoes

so you don’t have to carry them alone.

Paint peels like old confessions,

layers of color hiding older lives—

someone else’s joy,

someone else’s grief,

still pulsing beneath your days.

These walls have heard prayers

that never learned the right words,

have watched hands tremble

before reaching for the door,

have counted footsteps pacing

between hope and fear.

They know how many times

you almost left.

They know why you stayed.

That crack near the window?

That’s where a promise broke.

The stain near the floor?

Spilled coffee, or tears—

the walls won’t tell.

They never betray.

In winter, when the world outside is sharp and cruel,

they keep you gathered.

In summer, they sweat with you,

sharing the burden of being alive.

The walls are warm

because they remember your name

even when you forget it yourself.

One day, you will leave.

Someone new will arrive,

press their palm where yours once rested,

and wonder why the room feels safe.

They won’t know it’s you.

But the walls will.