In our small house, where the walls still lean in to listen, I speak to the cupboards as if they might answer. I tell them I needed a bit more from you—more warmth in the silences, more staying in the leaving.

You and me, we were sliced clean by the sound of feet brushing off the last porch step. That sound—sharp and final—hissed through the air like blackbird calls caught in rusted wire, like wounded iron groaning under its own weight. It was the kind of sound that gas leaks make when no one’s watching. Almost no signs. Almost.

Didn’t someone ever tell you? That this is the sound of having loved. Not the crescendo, not the kiss—but the quiet unraveling. The echo that stays long after the door has closed. The ache that hums in the pipes, in the floorboards, in the breath you forgot to take.

©️ Beatriz Esmer