The house is quiet
the door cracked open
hum of the fridge and
unmade bed
soft glow of the bedside lamp and
pictures glisten in their frames of
happier times before you left.

You left, while your body stayed
arms around me in the morning, frayed
and I held your hapless shell, hoping
empty plastic water bottles littering the nightstand
and your many guitars were signs that
you were still home.


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