homing birds

the house has fallen silent.
don't flatter yourself.
it does not miss you.
its a house after all.
brick and mortar.no heart.
the fan creaks as it did before
darkness dances, peacocks cry,
mosquitoes buzz
and leave little love notes
on bare arms and dust laden feet.
cars pass by, the fridge is stocked
and everything is
as it was.as it has been.

the guitar in the corner
has given way to autumn dust.
stuffed to its brim.
clingy. with a sky full
of clouds of spider webs
the cluttered dining table
is reduced to its glass bearings.
not a trace of the comfortable mess
that had become its identity.
the balcony's famed monument
- pillars of emptied cigarette packets -
rests in the trash.or did, till yesterday.
the trash can is empty now.
the clock has once again
started telling time.
but now it goes backwards
retracing in perfect asymmetry
the days we spent together.
the feature wall has turned
a deeper shade of blue
if you would believe that.

the inconspicuous whisperings
of the walls are louder now.
but the house has fallen silent.
perhaps that is the way to go.