The leg drapes like a story half-told,
bare ankle, sock sagging,
a loose thread of someone who once stayed longer than they meant to.
The couch leans too, tired of holding.
Its fabric—floral ghosts in red and blue—
sighs beneath the weight of afternoons spent waiting.
Once it was new. Now it belongs to silence.
The walls hum faintly with forgotten noise,
a static of old laughter, scuffles,
the clink of a glass placed down too hard.
No one names it loneliness,
but the dust on the corner of the armrest
tells a different kind of history.
There’s comfort in the softness of ruin—
in the way a worn chair fits a body
like the outline of a lost map.
Outside, the world might spin itself raw,
but here, even the creak of springs is familiar,
a voice reminding you: you’ve already been forgotten.
