There are houses that keep breathing long after everyone has gone.
Walls remember footsteps, voices, the weight of laughter and sorrow.
Sometimes, what stays isn’t a person, but a presence, quiet, persistent, unexplainable.
This poem is about that kind of memory: the one that lingers, softly, even when time insists on moving on.
THE ONE THAT STAYED
They entered her house without permission,
left their marks on the walls without intention.
As her body went to sleep,
her soul whispered his name.
His ears, it seemed, sensed a feeling,
but his mind could not bear its depth.
Her heart, in the void, kept wandering,
and in her dreams, he would appear,
not as a lover, not as a savior,
but as a presence, achingly real.
The years passed; her body still slept,
her heart still wandering,
her soul waiting for his.
Six years of illusion, how would you name it?
His childish self would hear his name and laugh,
as if it weren’t beautiful,
as if it weren’t his.
Was it so absurd
that a soul like hers could recognize it,
and, tenderly,
frame it inside her memory?
They left the house eight years ago,
but he, he never left.
And with him, all the pain remained.
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