The Attic’s Quiet Weight

The ladder groaned under my slow climb,

dust motes thick as years swallowing the light.

Boxes sagged with forgotten faces,

old promises folded into cracked frames.

I caught my breath on a beam, the air sour,

heavy with peeling plaster and time’s cold grip.

A cracked photo spilled its ghosts at my feet,

whispers trapped beneath layers of lost afternoons.

The ache in my back was a quiet protest,

but the weight above felt like home,

silent and waiting, a slow shutter

on a room too full to stay empty.