Nicole Johnson

There’s a man who don’t remember

the names of what he’s lost.

He used to raise his voice

and watch the air recoil.

Now silence fills the hallway,

where fear used to be.

He sits inside the quiet

like a held breath.

She’s at the door again,

counting to ten.

Hand in the wood,

Heart caving in.

We don’t talk about it now,

It’s still in these walls.

This house learned to brace itself

Learned to hold its breath.

Laughter turned to echos

Buried in the dust.

No hero,

no clean ending.

Just slow forgetting

what this room was.

Paint peels where hands once rested.

Crayon buried under white.

Every apology still lives

in the walls at night.

When he forgot his own name

the rooms replied.

His echo thin as a candle,

steady in the dark.

She knows what not to say,

knows how to stay small.

Some words are weapons,

even when they’re gone.

They live around the damage

like it’s just a room.

Outside,

the grass grows over it

A mower hums, then disappears

Like everything does.