Echoes of Laughter

Beneath the boards, laughter lived once–
loud, stupid, the kind that makes you
snort whatever you’re drinking through your nose.

It didn’t ask permission.
It filled every room like smoke
from a party you didn’t mean to throw.

Now the hallways hold their breath.
The floorboards creak and you think
for half a second you hear it again,
that bark of someone losing it
over something that wasn’t even that funny.

But it’s just the house settling.
Just the wood remembering weight
it hasn’t carried in years.

The jokes went somewhere.
The people who told them went somewhere else.
And you’re still standing in the room
where the good times used to land,
listening to the cold air
fill the space they left behind.

There’s something cruel about an echo–
the way it gives you just enough
to know what’s missing,
then takes it back.

The warmth dissolved.
The noise moved on.
And what’s left is the sound
of a room that used to be full
learning how to be empty.