Room with the Quiet Walls

Peeling edges of that floral paper

curl like tired hands, slow to let go.

Dust settles thick in corners, settled,

a faint perfume of old books and forgotten hours.

A diary, spine cracked, lies open

beside a cracked window pane.

Sunlight dull, filtering through curtains

frayed, faded, a slow unravel.

I trace the cracked paint on the windowsill,

a map of every restless night.

No voices now, just the quiet walls

holding tight to ghosts I never called.