The house is a hollow shell of sound

The house is a hollow shell of sound

where the hum of the fridge is the only thing found.

I pulled back the tab with a click and a slide,

leaving the ceramic bowls tucked deep inside.

I’m eating the noodles right out of the tin,

feeling the cold metal press to my chin.

The spoon hits the ridges, a sharp, silver scrape,

in a kitchen where silence has taken its shape.