Rooms are Always Empty
Your shoes are still by the door.
I stepped around them this morning
like stepping around a memory
that doesn’t want to go.
The hallway light
flickers now.
It didn’t used to.
I thought maybe
your voice would echo
if I left the door open long enough,
but the house
only hums,
like it’s trying to forget
you ever lived here.
I found your notebook.
The pages were still warm,
some with half a sentence,
some with only one word.
They looked like
they were waiting
for you
to finish.
They say
grief is heavy.
But I think
it feels more like
nothing.
And nothing
is the heaviest thing
I’ve ever held.
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