The architecture of the ghosting was a silent room,
with the doors removed and the windows painted shut.
Out in the street, you tell a story with a missing ghost,
while I am here, still breathing in the gaps.
I turn to the one still standing in the draft,
the one whose pulse is the only clock left ticking.
I tell him: “The silence isn’t an empty vessel;
it is the heavy, solid weight of everything that happened.
You are not a footnote in a book they burned.”
So I begin rebuilding the room myself,
brick by honest brick,
naming what was taken
and what remains.
The gaps are mine to shape now –
not as wounds,
but as openings.
I step through them
into a story you cannot rewrite.
Jan 30
Jan 30, 2026 at 4:23 AM UTC
The architecture of the ghosting was a silent room,
with the doors removed and the windows painted shut.
Out in the street, you tell a story with a missing ghost,
while I am here, still breathing in the gaps.
I turn to the one still standing in the draft,
the one whose pulse is the only clock left ticking.
I tell him: “The silence isn’t an empty vessel;
it is the heavy, solid weight of everything that happened.
You are not a footnote in a book they burned.”
So I begin rebuilding the room myself,
brick by honest brick,
naming what was taken
and what remains.
The gaps are mine to shape now –
not as wounds,
but as openings.
I step through them
into a story you cannot rewrite.
A piece about the architecture of ghosting: how silence is never empty, how absence leaves its own geometry, and how reclaiming the narrative becomes an act of rebuilding. This poem traces the weight of what was withheld and the quiet strength of stepping into a story no one else gets to rewrite.
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