House in Motion

The house awakens to the whisper of night.
It glides on worn floors, a veil of moonlight.
Each step leaves traces of light, delicate crystals.
The hallways hold the breath that she sighs.
The prints gleam, a map of faded memories.
A kitchen whispering warm bread and winter’s silence.
The staircase creaks, a tongue of time refusing to cease.
The house moves on, lighting rooms that are no longer mine.
At dawn it settles, but never truly sleeps.
Upon the threshold rests a trace of light and dust.
Memory walks across the ceiling, leaving a faint heartbeat.
Tomorrow it begins its walk again, with the whole house held within its fingers.