Fingers brush against rough edges chipped

Fingers brush against rough edges, chipped,

a surface that held the weight of dreams and days,

a wall where my thoughts unraveled, wide and deep,

while sunlight streamed in, softening the haze.

The notice pinned up, stark and demanding,

flutters like old leaves, threatening to break

what once felt solid, familiar, and standing,

as memories ripple with every small shake.

I think of the hours spent anchored in thought,

that wall cradling secrets and pieces of me,

dissolving like dust in the air that I fought—

what’s left when you leave? Just a ghost left to be.