The radio hums dust dancing on the dial

The radio hums, dust dancing on the dial,

while oil rags whisper secrets of tools long forgotten.

Receipts curl in the damp like half-remembered meals,

where you might have laughed over cold coffee and a

greasy sandwich; a part of life I never knew.

I catch a tune, crackling from static,

a love song from a time when you breathed—

its notes drift like smoke from a pipe

left behind. I lean into the sound,

searching for pieces of a man who stashed his dreams

in boxes that now hold only memories.

The smell of motor oil, damp cardboard,

layered like stories left unsaid,

presses in, a weight I hold on to,

wondering how much of you still lingers here

in this echoing garage,

every note a reminder of the life you led.