I Am The Blueprint of My Own Quiet Ruin

The door swells in its frame each winter, paint curling like old tongues — still you press it open with a finger, leaving soft dents in the wood. Inside, the walls hum from hidden wires; plaster sighs under your barefoot weight. Every step — a loosened nail, a whisper of dust sliding down beams. The windows breathe in drafts, their single panes shivering; no storm need rage — your shadow is enough to rattle them. In the hallway, wallpaper blisters; your sleeve grazes it, and flakes of me snow to the floor. The ceiling, swollen with damp, droops lower each night you sleep here — timbers ache above your breathing. Downstairs, the kitchen faucet drips like a clock without courage; your laugh sends the pipes ringing, and the cupboards cough up ghosts. Upstairs, in the attic, silence nests — you climb no ladder, yet I feel your warmth seep into rafters where rot waits, patient. When you close the door behind you, its frame leans inward, yearning. The house is always colder after.