Empty Rooms at Midnight

A light bulb swings slow, throwing shapes

that pool in corners like spilled ink.

Walls breathe with the creak of old pipes,

a chorus of small sounds growing loud.

Footsteps from the kitchen echo twice,

a chair scrapes, distant and hollow.

The night folds tight around the empty house,

a weight pressing soft on windowpanes.

I lie awake, skin prickling at shadows,

fingers clutching sheets thin as truth.

Home is a strange word here,

spelled out in silence,

unfinished, waiting for morning.