The Echo of Empty

The last box went.

A heave, a groan of cardboard.

Then, just the sound

of my own breath.

The key felt heavy in my hand,

cold metal, almost sharp.

Dust motes spinning in the last light,

over bare floorboards.

Every step I took

just stretched the quiet,

made the space

feel wider, somehow.

An echo of everything that was,

a hollow where it used to live.

And then, the door clicked shut.