A marker.

The cold house holds its breath,
its walls quietly creaking.
Art hangs lifeless,
music fades into silence,
books pile up like abandoned dreams.

Without them,
without you,
these are just objects—
hollow vessels of a life
that slipped through my fingers.

I came here at the end,
hoping for a beginning,
but these walls hold no memories,
the floors no scattered mess.
It’s not the rooms that are empty—
it’s the absence of us,
echoing louder than any voice.

I reach into the stillness,
search the shadows for their laughter,
for the warmth of your touch.
But no echoes linger here.
The silence is sharper,
cutting deeper than the shards of our broken home.

This place isn’t home.
It’s a marker,
a monument to what’s missing.
And I, its keeper,
stand here, lost,
aching for voices
to fill the void with life again.