Returning to your house today

it looked exactly as it did before,

March sun falling on its steps

bougainvillea by the gate. Inside, I gravitate to your room. A rocking chair

sits where you would have been

and the room doesn’t smell the same

anymore.

The sky did not crack upon realising

These sights did not gnaw at me.

No columns of gloom hung over the house.

Your room a living museum

though many of your things have been removed.

Sun slanted quietly on the rocking chair.

I felt only the fond, sad pull

towards you, wherever you are.