The vines have grown into the wall of our house
weaving through brick and mortar
veins of a force
stronger with time.
On the back of a door
my height is etched
exponentially lagging lines
until no growth is recorded.
Corners without whispers
dust and rubbish filling up space.
Places damaged out of habit or spite
never thinking they could belong to someone else
wondering if the chip of the tile will mean anything,
if the coin under the wood will ever be found.
Auras that frame ancient carpets
tangible shadows betraying the existence
of objects past
hiding something we forgot to retrieve
negative space of routine life.
The chair no one sat upon
linens stale, worn and forgotten
footsteps upon footsteps
and the fading echoes of a child
tears washed under pouring water
a crimson stain that never quite disappeared
the ingrown grottos through which
sound and substance still leak.
The bookshelves that will be occupied
by strange mementos advancing into a foreign land
incongruent with the souls that linger.
And my grandfather
whose sleep took him to other lengths
from which he never came back
watches from a distance
a family he does not recognize.
And the place where once we lived
backs of doors with parallel lines
broken tiles and mended stalls
dried paint that stays like a birthmark
no longer mine.