The House on the Eastern Cliff

You know that curve in the road. The one where the digital world completely dies. Where the pine trees lean in close. Like they are guarding a secret. We left something there. Between the moss and the old stones. A piece of July. Frozen in time. I went back yesterday. The air tasted like woodsmoke and heavy rain. But the wooden dock was gone. The lake was a perfect sheet of dark glass. Where did the laughter go? ... It is sinking slowly to the bottom, tangled in the water lilies. Safe from the wind. There is a house on the eastern cliff. No maps show the path. The paint is peeling like birch bark. The windows look out onto an endless white fog. Who used to live there? ... We did. Before we learned how to forget. The ocean is still singing to the empty rooms. Listen. Listen to the salt on the glass. The cold Atlantic swell. A single cello holding the note. Just for us. Streetlights flickering in a town with no name. An old train station covered in wild ivy. The tracks go nowhere. The schedule board is blank. Why do we always dream of the platform? ... Because that is where we said goodbye without speaking. The steam is still warm in the air. The ghost of your coat trailing behind. Memory is a physical place. A sanctuary built from dust and reverb. The light here is always golden hour. It never actually sets. Are you still walking down that hall? ... Yes. I am waiting by the door.