Empty Square

The last box gone, the door now shut,

a hollow sound, a quiet theft.

And on the floor, a cleaner rut,

where the old rug had always left

its mark. A pale, precise design,

a square of lighter, dust-free space.

The absence of what had been mine,

stared back from that accustomed place.

Around its edges, fine grey dust,

the quiet proof of time's soft creep.

A layer of what I had to trust

to memory, to hold and keep.

A room so full, now stripped and bare,

a simple, stark geometry.

Just silence, hanging in the air,

and what used to be, used to be.