Stillness

There’s a hush in these rooms that was never there before.
Floorboards silent, air heavy, shadows pressed to every door.
You hold your breath and the dark holds you tighter.
Waiting for the world to move, but nothing gets lighter.

Every sound’s a question you don’t want to answer.
You count the seconds, feel the heartbeat stutter.
The clock keeps its secrets, the fridge hums low.
You try not to look at the places you know you shouldn’t go.

You flick the lights on, check every room twice,
but the silence follows, patient as ice.
You feel something watching from just out of view.
Every mirror is deeper than you ever knew.

You press your hands to your ears, hope to block out the noise,
but the quiet just grows, swallowing your voice.
You wish for morning, for laughter, for proof,
but all you have is the hush, and the sense of the truth.

You want to believe there’s nothing there,
but the quiet keeps pulling, tugging at your hair.
You lock every window, turn music up loud,
but stillness presses closer, erasing the sound.

Stillness isn’t empty—stillness is awake.
It’s the promise of footsteps you know you didn’t make.
It’s every fear you whispered when you thought you were alone.
It’s the shiver at your shoulder, the chill inside your bones.

Stillness never leaves, it just waits and it learns.
It knows every secret, every ache, every lie.
It waits with a patience that never runs dry.
Stillness sits beside you, breathing under your bed.