After He Left

The hinge gave just a breath, a sigh,

then the solid thud, without goodbye,

of wood on frame, a final, certain beat.

His shoes, now silent, on the street.

My chest went hollow, a strange air,

where conversation had just been there.

The quiet settled, deep and wide,

the sound of a door closing from inside.

It wasn't loud, no angry slam,

just gravity's slow, certain jam.

And now the room, too big, too still,

awaits whatever emptiness it will

fill up with. The scent of him,

fading, leaving me here at the rim.