The Basement’s Breath

The door groans, stepping into damp cold,

a press of mildew mixing with old iron.

Concrete stairs cracked beneath my feet,

somewhere a spiderweb glitters, dust-choked,

waiting in the half-light.

That smell—earthy and sharp,

a breath held long under the skin of the house.

Boxes stacked with forgotten things,

memories folded thick beneath a winter’s chill,

a scent that sticks like yesterday’s dust.

Breathing it in, a slow tightness

settles in the ribs,

something sour and sweet, settled deep,

like secrets buried below the floor.