Language of Lost Things

The things hold a secret tongue that shivers in the house’s gloom.
The old coat whispers names shortened by time; whoever lost it remains marked.
The key tells of steps where the air trembled between the door and the threshold.
The cup recalls the dawn of one who never returns, sighing a rain of unspoken promises.
In that silent language, buttons and clasps beat rhythms unpronounced.
A forgotten clock marks distances between the present and those who have left.
Objects write a diary of scents, scratches, and forgotten breaths, an invisible map.
Whoever listens becomes a keeper; following the voice of things is finding the house that never ends.