This house is haunted, love- not by ghosts, but by the absence of your smile. Bent rays of light avoid the tall glass boundaries here, summoning the hush that only memory bows to. But the dreams I can rescue are black and white- they don’t even whisper. They need your paintbrush for color, your stories unearthed from time to speak again.
What time is it? Do clocks know where you are? Do they remember when you balanced your easel upright to give voice to histories trapped in still frames?
Twilight falls, and time changes shape, spiraling toward the purple monsters in the sky. A second becomes a never-ending echo, caught in the pause between love and loss.
Your place is empty on the wooden floor, where you’d cross your legs and face your canvas with gentle defiance. The dust doesn’t settle there- as if your silhouette left a force that defies gravity, too stubborn for me to forget, too fragile for me to approach.
My eyes are wide open. But am I dreaming?
You must be gone- your brush is mute, the paint refuses to dream, and the room forgets how to breathe.
And here I am, tracing invisible circles, inexplicable by nature, around a silence that looks like you. The air still remembers your eyes, your name.