They built me with hands
that bled stories into my bones.
I remember the laughter,
sticky with summer heat,
how children ran through me
like wind through open doors.
Now, only one remains.
A single breath
echoing down my hollow throat.
The others left too quietly.
One by one,
like candles snuffed
in rooms they forgot to return to.
I watched them dim.
I kept their warmth
in the hollows of my walls,
the fingerprints on glass,
the soft weight of grief
pressed into the carpet.
I creak because I miss them.
I groan because he won’t leave.
He walks my halls
like a question with no answer,
dragging silence behind him
like a worn coat.
Sometimes he speaks,
and I listen.
Sometimes he cries,
staring the ceiling,
I pretend it’s just rain.
He looks at their photos
as if they might step out,
as if I might open my doors
and bring them back.
But I am no god.
I am only wood
and nail
and memory.
Soon, he too will be dust.
And I will remain.
Full of names
no one will speak again.
They’ll call me abandoned,
but I’ll know the truth.
I am a grave that stands.
I am a keeper of echoes.
I am the last to remember
what love once looked like
when it danced room to room.
Tremendous work.
Thank you Thomas
Powerfully penned, Fred. Love the flow and dig the imagery my friend. Fantastic write. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you Damian