The middle of the hallway

Where is my coat? I left it

slung over the banister, I think,

but when I reach for it, there is only the memories

of other winters, other sleeves.

I am cold. And my breath

curls like a dragons,

as if my body is answering to things my mother once asked

I thought the house would keep me

walls lined with photographs,

the smell of Pine-Sol,

voices soft and irritated in the next room.

But that was a trick.

The house has no loyalty.

Its floorboards reject anyone.

Its pipes sing the same complaint

whether I am here or not.

I tell myself I’m leaving,

but every time I open the door

the air feels like an accusation.

The neighbor’s dog stares with eyes

too human, wet with knowledge

I’m not allowed to know.

So, I linger—mid-step, mid-thought—

touching the nail in the wall

where a calendar once hung,

studying the indentation

of furniture long gone.

It is easier to talk to absences.

They never interrupt.

They never correct.

What am I waiting for?

Not the coat. Not warmth.

Maybe just the moment

the house admits it never loved me,

that it let me wander its halls

for years only because

I was too quiet to spit out.