Passing Shadows

In vacant rooms, the shadows drift like luggage,
traces of light that refuse to remain.
They bear the stitching of evenings, buttons of spent laughter.
Exchanging memories like rare coins:
a morning loaf of bread, a word grown pale,
the weight of a caress upon the sill.
When they depart, they leave pockets filled with air,
a door that still hears the beating of the void.
Thus silence learns the art of guarding.