Stone Steps in the Empty City

Stone Steps in the Empty City


The First Crack


Morning shadow on the landing


The first crack made no noise,

the angle of the light on the wood just changed,

where your key once rested,

Now a fine, almost invisible dust is gathering.


The steps at the entrance have a different weight,

they carry neither news nor expectations,

only the obsession of the clock in the hallway,

who counts the hours without understanding them.


I look at my empty hands on the table,

they still maintain the bend of the old habit,

as if asking for a gesture that was withdrawn,

a shape that lost its content.


The city outside breathes at the same pace,

the buses turn at the same corner,

and yet, inside this room,

The past has become a weight that cannot be moved.


The trace on the wall


Where the mirror hung,

one lighter square remained,

a memory of the wall from the light,

that refuses to get old along with the rest of the room.


There we looked at each other before going out into the cold,

we corrected the collars and the fake smiles,

ready to face public opinion,

who always asked us for a flawless showcase.


Now the surface is bare and honest,

It does not return idols or illusions,

only the plastered reality,

waiting for the next crack.


How easily the eye gets used to loss,

as long as he doesn't look straight into space,

but its edges, where the paint is peeling,

revealing the old, forgotten layer.


Whispers in the kitchen


The coffee cup retains its crack,

a thin line that runs through porcelain and memory,

I take my sip carefully,

Don't let the truth break on my lips.


The cupboards still hold your scent,

oregano, old paper and a hint of tobacco,

objects that survive absence,

pretending that nothing has happened.


The TV in the background is talking about economic crises,

for numbers rising and people falling,

but our collapse didn't make the news,

It had no live connection or expert analysis.


It happened quietly, between the salt and the bread,

when we realized we no longer had,

nothing substantial to share,

except for the silence that was growing dangerously.


The geometry of silence


The room was divided into zones,

here is the place where you used to read, where we were silent,

an invisible mapping of alienation,

which happened without official statements.


The furniture stands like witnesses in a trial,

who refuse to testify to the truth,

they keep their shape intact,

while their meaning has long since evaporated.


— What are you looking at so intently?

— The point where your shadow no longer meets mine.


And so the conversation ends before it begins,

with a hastily inserted period,

to avoid the embarrassment of the sequel,

which would reveal the extent of the damage.