Vacant

The clock is still ticking

in the living room,

above where the couch use to be. 

The water still drips

in the tiny hallway bathroom

where you kept your curlers.

The floor in the kitchen,

still has that dip -

You know, in front of the Thanksgiving table.

We remembered every smell, every texture, every sound your home made. 

The house is dark now.

The air thick and sticky.

Trashed and boarded. 

Your chair is the way you left it. 

Waiting for you.

He turned it into a shrine. 

Your side of the bed is cluttered

with your books and clothes.

The bathroom still smells like you.

Your house shoes look like you're still walking in them.

You never finished the trim on my blanket. 

I found a bookmark in the book you borrowed. 

You were so close to the end. 

I'm drowning in the silence. 

I turned it off so they could grieve. 

I keep it off so they can move on. 

I'm stuck in the silence. 

Stuck in time.

The echo's are so loud without you here to throw them back.