given everything they’ve witnessed.
I’ve tried different approaches,
asking “How are you?” directly or
“Did you see the game last night?”
as an icebreaker. They never respond,
remain stubbornly shy. Perhaps
I have not found the right topic.
Some nights the floorboards creak
out curses as they shrink or expand.
At times, the computer sings softly
to itself, a single note to clarify
the air. I have heard these stories
too often, consider their secrets dull.
I know the walls understand more
than they let on, but I am unnerved
by their lack of reply. “It’s OK,”
I whisper, late at night, palm on
the cool bricks “You can trust me.”
They remain speechless. All I hear
is my own breath, slow and patient,
and outside the persistent muttering
of winds, yearning to find a way in.
Prompt was “The silent walls” from LemondaisyPoetry on Instagram