Empty Walls

The last box sealed,

tape torn with a harsh rip.

The click of the lock,

final, an echo

in the sudden, vast quiet.

I stood in the living room,

a ghost of what it was.

The floorboards groaned,

no longer muffled by rugs,

each step loud,

a trespass.

On the pale wall,

faint squares of dust,

lighter patches where pictures had hung,

where laughter had been framed.

The ghost of a wedding,

a child's first drawing,

gone now, leaving only absence.

The window stared out,

a blank eye,

no curtains to soften the glare.

The street sounds, raw and close.

Everything outside,

everything within,

suddenly exposed.

A hollow space,

ready for someone else's history,

someone else's things.

I left the key on the counter,

a small, metal glint,

and walked out,

leaving only the dust.