The House Between Breath and Bone

The hallway smells of old cedar and sunlight, the kind that presses into the seams of floorboards and lingers there like a quiet promise. My bare feet trace the faint scratches of someone else’s passing, and I feel their weight, their pause, their whisper in the grain. I reach for the doorknob at the end, the metal cold, hard, and alive under my palm, and for a heartbeat the house seems to breathe with me, exhaling the warmth of long-gone evenings. A thread of dust dances in a shaft of light, spinning like a tiny galaxy, brushing against my eyelashes and settling into the curve of my cheek.

Dust spins in sunlight

Fingers brush the pulse of walls

House exhales with me

In the small room upstairs, the air hangs heavy with forgotten laughter. I sit on the edge of a narrow bed, fingertips grazing the thin sheet, and the fabric holds the memory of someone’s shoulder, the soft press of a head, the warmth of a sigh. The window is open, and the wind slips in, tangling with my hair, carrying the scent of frost and wet earth. I close my eyes and listen to it coil around the bones in my hands, tracing the hollows I didn’t know were empty, threading a warmth through the cold.

Wind folds through the room

Sheet remembers a shoulder

Bones catch fleeting warmth

I find the attic by way of a narrow staircase, the steps uneven, whispering beneath each footfall. The room is small, crowded with trunks and shadows, and I pause at the edge, letting my hand skim the surface of an old trunk, feeling the metal cool and the wood alive with memory. A photograph slips from between pages, and I catch it midair, his eyes a flash of sun and mischief, a moment I should not have kept. My chest tightens, and the air around me feels electric, as if the house itself is holding its breath, waiting for me to remember everything.

Trunk breathes under hand

Eyes of sun and mischief shine

House holds its own breath

I kneel on the floor, letting the dust rise around me in thin, trembling clouds. The light bends against my fingers, paints the edges of my skin gold, and I feel the pulse of something alive beneath the boards, beneath the walls, a rhythm older than my own. Somewhere deep, laughter and tears mingle, a tide I can almost touch, almost carry with me. I press my palm to the floor, and it presses back, a warm, strange confirmation that the past is never gone. It waits, patient, in the small spaces between breath and bone.

Dust rises in light

Palm presses against the past

Tide waits beneath skin

Reviews

[Davidgeo]

Like, I like that you call this poetry. This is poetry even though most people wouldn't call this poetry. (poetry)

Also, it reminds me of the lord of the rings. Do you do that on purpose? I love it.

Have I ever recommended any of TS eliot's tom foolery to you before? Or Thomas Merton's version of eastern religious philosophy/poetry? I think you would like The Way of Chuang Tzu in particular. Poetry, it's a fine party... we rhyme only occasionally actually.

[Curly Grace]

thank you... I’m glad it felt like poetry to you. And the Lord of the Rings echo made me smile.

[Randall]

Curly Grace, I think I know where that house is. In a place where everything glows in the dark.

Randall...

[Curly Grace]

You Cheeky...You made me smirk...
Curly...
Goodnight, Randall