The attic still reeks
of your sandalwood scent
and the broken floors
still groan with
your name between their
creases and their grit.

The windows still
cradle your shadows
and the walls still
whisper of your name
in the silence
of the moon’s silver light

House, is not a home.
And what are four walls, anyway?

They are as good,
as the hearts that live
inside of them.

And what if…what if,
your home that keeps your heart warm
becomes some stranger’s arms?