The walls hear forget.

We pack what can survive:

photographs, chipped mugs,

the plant that endured three moves

and one winter without heat.

Outside, the street has learned

how not to see.

A coffee shop blooms

where the clinic closed.

The price of air rises.

At night, the building exhales:

pipes ticking like knuckles,

stairs remembering knees.

We leave the shape of our lives

pressed faintly into dust.

Months later, when the luxury sign flickers,

wind walks the empty rooms,

carrying our footsteps

back and forth,

back and forth:

a language

no lease can silence.