Breath Among Things

The room holds its breath
until a gaze brushes past it.
Then the objects come alive,
the dust catches light.
An extinguished lamp opens the corners,
the broken cup remembers lost mornings.
The rusty key whispers of doors
that lived without asking permission.
The sofa fabric vibrates, breathes,
a scent of time that will not fade.
Every object tells a voice
without words, only in the breath.
Look at stories that need no words.
The breath ignites again in their gaze;
the past narrates with a soft pulse,
and sleeps only when you turn off the light.