The Sound the House Keeps

At night the house rearranges its breathing.

Not loudly. Not enough to wake anyone

who still believes walls are obedient things.

The pipes hesitate before answering themselves.

The floor remembers the shape of weight

long after footsteps have stopped asking for it.

In the kitchen, a glass contracts.

Just once. A small decision against silence.

The refrigerator hums like it has been forgiven

for something it never confessed.

Outside, the trees negotiate with wind

in a language made entirely of refusal.

Nothing leaves without being less than it was.

I used to count the spaces between sounds,

the way you count seconds after lightning

to pretend you can measure distance

between yourself and consequence.

There is a receipt in my pocket from a gas station three states away.

It has no business being here,

pressed against my leg like a second pulse.

It names things I never remember buying.

A time I never remember becoming.

The house does not ask about it.

It continues its slow work of endurance.

Expanding where no one can see it expand.

Contracting where nothing can intervene.

Somewhere, a door settles deeper into its frame.

Somewhere, a hinge decides not to last forever.

I listen for the sound that does not belong,

but everything insists on itself

with equal authority.

Even the silence,

which stays longer than invited,

which stays even now,

long after the house has finished

breathing me in.