Traces on the Wall

The wall breathes softly, guarding secrets.
Each scratch is a syllable lost to time.
Traces of water and dust read names
Of a past clinging fast to the walls.
A secret language formed of lime and salt.
Prints of hands, of rain, of passing visits.
A tongue the plaster betrays to those who gaze.
And the house, an old archivist, is silent, listening.
Lines curve like fingers on a shadowy key.
The paint inscribes verses that never cease.
Each crack is a word that returns and shatters.
A sigh of time marks the border of the rooms.
When I enter, the walls whisper my name.
I am the final page of this tongue.
The house still speaks, slow and curious.
I read the time that leaves its imprint.