Rough Rest

Fingertips press into chipped white,

a wall that knows the weight of night.

Rough plaster curls in dusty flakes,

quiet scars that memory makes.

No paint can hide the bumps and cracks,

like whispered ghosts along the tracks.

Fingers trail the broken skin,

a place where quiet once set in.

The wall leans in, and so did I,

leaned hard until the years ran dry.

A rough rest found beneath the dust,

crumbled trust and quiet rust.