Blueprints of the Forgotten

The blueprints are drawn in dust, penciled onto the skin of old water, where the hall narrows into a throat of unlit cedar and salt.

We walk through the rooms of last July, barefoot on floorboards that have turned to mist. Every window is a frame for a sky that no longer belongs to this year.

The stairs don't lead to a landing, only to the scent of rain on a warm road, a geometry of ghosts built from the way the light hit the kitchen table.

To live here is to be a tenant of echoes, polishing the brass of things we never said, until the structure dissolves into the quiet of a garden reclaimed by the weeds.