welcome home, starling

you are safe now



maybe the reason

the old apartments feel full again

is because something died in them

the night we left. I still recall

the exact position the moon took

on the dresser, varnished wood

and spilled water. you kept a cup

beside the bed for the times

you wanted to drink, considerately

without your footsteps waking

the neighbour below. that old man,

I remember him saying that

you can leave a house

but a home will never leave you.

what a statement. I remember

the moths in the cupboards, fondly.

the first time we opened the wardrobe

they fluttered out, dancing

like small spirits, powdery genies

uncertain in the air after eternities

from one shell to another. you said,

“we need to clean, robert. this place

is not empty. it feels lived in. past tense.”

you never let anyone play ouija;

you were scared of what we’d find

and I wonder, now, if I were to look

in the bathroom mirror, say your name

at midnight, three times fast,

if you would come back, once again

or if I would see only myself

from that year.

Photo Credit: trevor.patt via Compfight cc

Sea State

Sea State