Whispers

Brianna Le / V Mag at UVA

I speak quietly now
because I’m not certain
who might hear.
The doorway is too open;
its frame splintered,
paint peeling in pale strips.
Cold air drifts inside,
sharp against my skin.
You don’t know who’s listening
until it’s too late.

I wonder if I really liked you,
or was it your love that dressed me
in something warmer?
I liked the books you bought,
the smell of their pages lingering
long after you left.
And that one dimple—
it would appear when I touched
the scar on your right cheek.

I sit here in the doorway,
the cold pressing closer,
the wind shifting loose leaves
across the porch.
Whispers tumble in
like an unexpected breeze,
curling around my ankles,
slipping into the corners
of this hollow house.

Outside, the night stretches open,
the kind of darkness
that doesn’t end.
I lean against the doorframe,
waiting for the whispers to quiet,
but they never do.