The Breathing House

The abandoned house holds time like a breath.
Inside, the rooms have dusty eyes that listen to the wind’s steps.
Beyond the windows, darkness becomes breath in its own right.
Every corridor smells of ancient salt, waiting to inspire.
When the moon parks upon the balcony, the breath ignites.
A luminous flame runs along the walls, gentle and cold.
The shadows align themselves, like silver maps spread on a table.
The house breathes the light and fills itself with memory.
Then the moon departs and silence returns, but not the lost breath.
The breath remains suspended still, ready for the next lunar parking.
The cracks become streets where a small flame resides.
And to the rhythm of the wind, the house knows how to wait.