The empty house

The house smelled musty,
it was cold, still and empty.

Your chair was where it always had been,
the magazine rack and the reading lamp
standing by in case you came back.

You’d spent years clearing out all your stuff
so when the time came we wouldn’t have to,
but it was still full of you, every corner, every cupboard,
every shelf and every tea stained cup.

Your presence pervaded everything,
everything I looked at or picked up
reeked of you, and as I went from room to room,
wardrobe to wardrobe, drawer to drawer,
the melancholy we shared welled up
and engulfed me again.

We had a deep bond, you and I,
but it was a bond of hopelessness,
sadness and loss.

Your house was always
empty to me.