Nocturnal Breath

The kitchen breathes slowly, moon among closed drawers.
The refrigerator whispers shivers of ice, unasked stories.
The kettle tells journeys of water and forgotten bread.
A cup remains still, as if waiting for a hand that does not return.
Objects speak when silence practices, the pan beats an old sea.
The spatula stretches a memory of sugar and faded April.
The tap murmurs an off-key word, the door trembles for a past that does not return.
Thus the nocturnal breath invites us to listen, who did not ask to hear.