Nothing hits quite as hard as an empty house.
Walls stripped bare of dreams,
drawers and cabinets emptied of purpose.
No creak and pop of baseboard heaters,
trying to wake the day.
Ghosts of holidays shared and those not to be,
trying to echo through the halls.
It is like life, sometimes, in that way.
Wanting to be something new,
desperate to remember what it was,
waiting for someone to tell it how to be less empty.
I wonder if it wonders if it will be deemed a teardown.
Too full and empty of what it was and wanted to be,
for it to pull off a refab.
Maybe it will need to be pulled apart,
its pieces scattered across the lot,
burned and cut up and sold off.
Gazing towards the sky,
supine, split, and smoldering
like skystruck timber.
Needing to rot into the ground,
before it can grow into something new.
I wonder if it is as afraid of that as we are.