Tuesday, 4 January 2011


The walls miss you
The bed calls your name
The bricks hold their breath.
They wait.

The sheets weep
The soft toys huddle in corners,
asking after you
Which one saw you last?

Your clothes pine, abandoned
The food in the fridge counts the days
since you were here.

The milk tells the mould that never knew you
stories of who you were:

A chance
A gaggle of noise
A gush of joy.

Now the stereo lies mute
The lamp not lit since you left
The ashtray’s heart
Yearns for your return.


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