“My father’s house has many rooms…”
Well, mine has few, but they all echo with him,
In an endless cycle of lost expectation.
Everything here is soaked in it;
Every scent, every sound, every speck of dust.
And I, still listening in the dark
for the distant ebb and flow of his breathing,
Lie shipwrecked by the the wash of the waves,
Caught in the tides called by the gravity of his loss,
The massive pull of the place where he used to be,
Endlessly empty, endlessly filled with his absence.
Everywhere here is full of him.
Everywhere here is where he used to be.
Everywhere echoes with the lost whispers
Of one last story, before I sleep.