By: Muskan

I walk past houses like chapters
some unfinished, some forgotten,
some written in gold ink,
some in dust.

Even the abandoned ones get noticed,
standing there like old letters
waiting for someone who promised to return
and never did.
Walls peeled, but patient.
Faithful in grief.

Then there are the marble modern mansions
so obsessed with perfection
that they forgot how to feel.
In shining so hard,
they somehow lost their shine.
I see the 90s builds too
old money bones,
new tiles stitched into history.
Not trying to stay young,
just refusing to age.
A quiet confidence
you can’t install with money.

Some houses have too many corridors,
too many shortcuts,
doors opening from impossible corners
you can tell someone’s childhood lived here.
Running feet, hide-and-seek,
giggles tucked under staircases.
The kind of house that remembers joy.

Some places feel like home
before you even touch the gate.
Warm lights, soft edges,
an unspoken you could rest here.

Others scream luxury
cold floors, expensive emptiness.
No warmth. No story.
Just the echo of wealth without life.

And then there are those
that spark something reckless inside me
a hope, a promise, a hunger:
one day, I’ll have my own.
Not my father’s.
Not my husband’s.
Mine.

Some houses make me envy
the children who lived in them
their summers, their birthdays,
their stable walls.
A kind of innocence
you can’t build back once broken.
But I keep noticing
every brick, every ghost,
every dream behind every window.

Because houses are just people
made of concrete and memory
longing to be lived in,
seen, loved, and chosen
all over again.

About the Poet: Muskan is a student of Applied Economics and Statistics with an interest in reflective and observation-based poetry. Her writing explores themes of memory, belonging, and human experience through everyday observations.

This poem was featured on Poetic Expressions 4.0 — our flagship poetry recital event.