The walls still hum with what was said,
not in words, exactly,
but the way her eyes held silence like it was sharp.
I walk the length of the hallway barefoot,
each board creaking like it’s trying to confess
something I already know but won’t admit.

There is a hollow behind my ribs
where the idea of "us" used to echo,
but now it just folds inward,
a place not even memory wants to visit.
The kids slept through it.
Or maybe they didn't.
Either way, they are reasons and weights,
stars I orbit, unsure of my own mass.

I pour water and watch the surface still.
It doesn't feel like peace, just quiet.
Sometimes that’s enough.
Sometimes it’s not.
I don’t know which tonight is.
I just know I’m tired,
and tired doesn’t mean I’m done.