There are nights
even the stars refuse witness,
when heaven furrows ink-dark wings
and no light may testify.
But a heavy, pressing pinion quill
velvet shroud woven from the sighs,
of those who forgot how to leave
not a ghost, but a memory.
Echoing a closing door that breathes
on a dress that has turned to dust,
the ribs of time like a pendulum do
with a scent of my cuckoo.
Every room remembers differently
though none can speak its own decay.
Dust keeps the weight of vanished footsteps
long after the floor forgets their names.
Lingering where silence is paranoia
that only the hollow can hear,
an imprint of a life
that refuses to be erased.
