Empty house but for the echoesof conversations too long ago for memory,
laughter soaked into the baseboards,
arguments forming small but stubborn stains
hidden by rugs in neutral colors.
House in wait, holding its breath
until someone turns the key,
opens the door, enters without
noticing a sigh that ruffles
the curtains in the front room.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013
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