The Empty Room

Feet once thrummed
and hung in the air beside the bed,
though from now on they walk
on pavements that are far from home;
in other house on other hill
and down other halls they deign to tread.

Words which before had echoed, return unsaid,
as the wind from windows flows and brushes them aside,
and it whirls through the space beneath the bed
where once a host of trinkets had lain in rest,
dust covered in repose;
long dead.

The masochistic need of unfilled shelves
draw a sense from passersby
that things might never be the same,
for we all remember that shallow void
which, unfilled, existed
before you deigned to stay.

Photographs have vanished from faded walls,
boxed, and carried far;
the only imprints can be found
where you had pinned them through their nostalgic hearts.
All trace of love and laughter’s gone,
the scented candles which you adored
no longer burn.

I have found that on nights
when the moon is bright and I am not asleep,
I’ll sit awake
and my tired eyes will trace
a path to your old door.

There is nothing so sorrowful
as an empty room.

.