Echoes of a Silent House

A hinge exhales along the corridor. Time to footsteps, none confess. Panel swell with

buried verdicts. Pressed into the grain by years. Every threshold keeps its posture.

Leaning toward or leaning from you. And I who slip beneath their verdicts

feel your tempers through the floor. All the doors breathe softly as if the

house were keeping score. The choices bandits architecture in every frame

remembers more. The lovers in the attic tremble, the boy downstairs

holds steady ground. And from the shadows by the staircase

I count your separate hesitations. Still the dwelling vines you gently press your stories