The House With Shuttered Windows

The House With Shuttered Windows

The house keeps its silence

ivy climbing across its throat

no bird lands on its sill

the air refuses to breathe here

shadows fold against the walls

I pass it at dusk

my steps gather in my chest

my hand almost rises to knock

but the wood is tired of knocks

tired of questions

tired of visitors who never stay

Inside I imagine dust

layered like another wallpaper

and chairs with spines bent

from waiting too long

for voices to return

I think of death

how it lingers quiet as moths

behind the curtains

holding a patient smile

never needing to move

The windows never open

yet something gazes out

watching the street

as if it remembers me

as if it wants me to come closer

So I do not linger

I keep walking

and still I feel it following

the air colder behind my back

a secret I will not carry home