The Light Doesn't Know You Left

The table is the same table.

Same scratches in the wood.

Same light at 3 PM

through the kitchen window.

I sat where I always sat.

My hands fit the space

where they always fit.

But my hands are different now.

Older. Don't recognize the table

as theirs anymore.

The house remembered everything.

It forgot me.

I waited for something to shift,

for the light to say my name,

for the room to know

I was here,

was home,

once.

It didn't.

The light was just light.

The table was just wood.

I was someone visiting

someone else's past.