Abandoned Breath

The beams whisper a weary breath,
the house exhales dust and rusted memories,
and the hallways count footsteps that never come.
Each window is an eye recording the passing time,
a breath of wind marks minutes upon the walls,
the travelers who never came remain etched in the silence.
The floor is an atlas of faded footprints,
a door shuts with a sigh that has forgotten the key,
the house still breathes, waiting for names that won’t return.
When night falls, the breath becomes keeper of unbegun journeys,
each minute turns to cold iron within time’s grasp,
and at dawn, the house reopens its eyes upon an empty station.