Emptied
There is a sound the house makes
a sort of abandoned sigh,
a hushed breathing
as yawning, creaking walls stretch slowly up,
up, up
as years sink down and tuck themselves
in among sleeping floorboards,
too worn to whisper secrets
with the mice.
You may sit there
in the corner of the lonely kitchen,
(but do not disturb the moths)
just as modest patches of papery orange light
fade from scuffed painted floor-tiles, and
listen to the murmuring of the house–
but you must promise to be very,
very,
quiet.
For the House is old and fraying now, rather tired too,
its breathing so shallow, these days
it only likes to speak to
ghosts who listen.
- girl and her pencil
YOU ARE READING
midnight rain | ₐ bₒₒₖ ₒf ₚₒₑₘₛ
Puisi"i try so hard to help other people because i have no idea how to help myself" things will get better let beautiful, painful flowers grow from the places where you wept
