Pieces of Home

I walk through the rooms where her laughter once danced,

these faded chairs hold secrets of chance.

The armchair slumps, where she’d read every night,

wrapped in the stories that kept me in sight.

Now dust gathers thick like a shroud of regret,

her presence lingers, a warmth I can't forget.

Each piece tells a tale, a history worn,

a bittersweet echo, a heart heavy, torn.