Most nights I exile myself
to the desert I call my room,
but at times I wander these halls
missing sounds that living exhume.
The distant murmur of a television,
water filling the kitchen sink.
Blasting air ricocheting off
lightless walls painted pink.
The front door closing behind me,
siblings footsteps getting faster.
The precious cries of the cast
lingering in the shadow of its master.

That is just a sampling of the racket
that I have been raised to love.
But truth is, we simply coexist in this house,
pushed together by some force up above.
Most nights I’m left with nothing-
not even the sound of snoring.
Not even raised voices, objects falling,
faces crashing, and anger roaring.
Not even the comfort of knowing they’re here
and being sure they aren’t missed.
Just that my family is out there in the world,
Just that somewhere, they exist.

So most nights I exile myself
to the room in which I sleep,
Running away from the silence
of which this house is a keep.