A shadow leaks from the cracked teapot,
Spider-webbed porcelain holding mysteries.
The clock wheezes in the quiet,
Its hands brittle like old bones.
The floorboards whisper secrets,
Under the weight of barefoot steps.
Dust motes dance in a single beam—
Our thoughts collecting in the silence.
Outside, the old cat limps through the garden,
Each pawfall a soldier’s march through weeds.
The telephone cannot remember voices,
Only the echo of unanswered calls.
We sit, heartbeats slow and measured,
Waiting for the sound of a key in the lock,
For the world to recognize our smallness,
To pause and nod before passing by.