the weather inside the walls

i thought i knew you,
like the back of my hand—
but what if even my own hands
are strangers in the dark?
i thought i knew you enough
to read the quiet between your words,
to see the storm before it broke.

but here we are,
close enough to touch,
miles apart in meaning.
you breathe,
but the air between us
feels borrowed.
you speak,
but your truths hide behind
well-lit syllables.

why does it feel
like i am still
uninvited
in the house i helped you build?
a ghost walking corridors
where i once believed i lived.

i don’t really know
what is happening
to you,
or if i ever did.
maybe knowing someone
is just a myth we chase—
a mirror we press our palms to,
hoping it will press back.

how strange,
to pour my whole heart
into hands
that never trembled.
to confess everything
to a silence
that never blinked.

but strangest of all—
to realize i was never knocking
on a closed door.
i was speaking
to a wall
that had already forgotten
my voice.

and now, i stand—
in the ruins of what we built,
not searching for answers,
but for a way to let go of the echoes
that refuse to fade.