The house is taciturn.
Secrets have settled under dust.
You left in the middle of December
leaving a mug of tea, a half read
magazine and washing up
shipwrecked in the sink.
The innards of the house lie in
piles outside the front door like
discarded offal. The ghost of a
Brahms sonata sighs around the
dismembered piano. Yellow crime tape
flaps in the wind like a Tibetan prayer flag.
I wish for a light at the window,
a steaming kettle,
singing from the bathroom
and a reason for your leaving.