Displacement

The house is a hollow bone now, cold and thin,

after the laughter and boots have moved on.

I’m waiting for the hot water to soak through my skin

and make me forget that everyone’s gone.

But there’s a dark strand caught in the drain,

a long, curved memory of someone else’s head.

It’s a small, sharp reminder of a lingering pain,

of the things that were lived but never quite said.

The faucet is leaking a slow, steady beat,

a metronome counting the minutes I’ve lost.

I sink till the porcelain swallows the heat,

trying to figure out what the quiet has cost.