He doesn't pay rent, but he stays in the hall,
Leaning his weight on the paint of the wall.
He’s there when the kettle begins its low scream,
The cold, heavy anchor in every mid-day dream.
He sits in the passenger seat of the car,
Not saying a word about how things are.
He’s the static that crackles between every song,
The feeling that everything’s slightly gone wrong.
He folds up the silence and keeps it in drawers,
He walks with a thud on the old wooden floors.
He doesn't want much—just a seat by the fire,
To dampen the spark of every desire.
I’ve grown used to the way that he shadows my light,
The way that he tucks in the edges of night.
He’s a mirror that only shows what isn't there,
A permanent ghost in an upholstered chair.
Mar 4
Mar 4, 2026 at 2:33 PM UTC
He doesn't pay rent, but he stays in the hall,
Leaning his weight on the paint of the wall.
He’s there when the kettle begins its low scream,
The cold, heavy anchor in every mid-day dream.
He sits in the passenger seat of the car,
Not saying a word about how things are.
He’s the static that crackles between every song,
The feeling that everything’s slightly gone wrong.
He folds up the silence and keeps it in drawers,
He walks with a thud on the old wooden floors.
He doesn't want much—just a seat by the fire,
To dampen the spark of every desire.
I’ve grown used to the way that he shadows my light,
The way that he tucks in the edges of night.
He’s a mirror that only shows what isn't there,
A permanent ghost in an upholstered chair.
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