this land was his cathedral—
he walked it like scripture,
hands buried in the soil
like he could forgive it
for everything.

but i cannot.

i return barefoot,
each step a needle
of memory.
this place opens its arms
and i flinch.

the room has a new bed now,
but the shape of that day
still lingers—
the soft collapse of his chest,
my ear pressed
to the drumbeat ending.
the air stilled.
the house exhaled.
and didn’t inhale again.

i sleep among ghosts
with no names,
only weather.
wind that hisses
through broken fences,
shadows caught in the corners
like secrets he never told me.

he loved this place
so fiercely
it must have hurt—
maybe that’s the only way
he knew how.

i keep trying
to separate the man
from the ground
he bled his days into.
but it’s all roots now.
it’s all entangled.
and i lie here,
still listening
for a heart that isn’t mine.