I was vacant: dust wafted off the window-sill, swirling in the afternoon sun when you came, rapping green fists on my empty door peering into my cloudy windows, glancing at the address shrugging and letting yourself in without a key.
You floated across the creaking floorboards of the foyer, sweeping my cobwebs into a corner. Did I forget to leave you the dustpan? You strode through glass-pained doors into the kitchen, scrubbing my china with the cold iron-water that poured forth from my pipes. Did I neglect to provide you with lye?
After you lumbered up the stairs, coughing on mothballs, I imagine that you shook your head at the tassels hung on my fraying valence, for soon enough you hurried your way back down the stairs into the kitchen through the foyer and out of my door. I wonder—
Was it the dust? Was it the dishes? Did you ever stop to open my curtains? Did you ever peer out the window, and into the gardens below?