I am haunted, even as a house is.
The whole of me sighs and creaks
as if settling down for the long night.
Everything wants to be occupied.
But there are empty rooms where
motes of dust sparkle in the fading light
and drafty places where a cold and sudden wind
whips through the slipcovers of furniture
abandoned for the summer long weeks
after the autumnal warmth has died.
I have so much that I could offer you;
but there is so little that you want from me.
Here, things once best loved lie discarded.
A book rests unused, open to page nine.
Shadows stretch in interminable twilight.
Footsteps echo where no one has passed,
resounding through narrow corridors
where plaster crumbles, softly white.
The scent that rises from the cellars
is dense and tinged with damp like cologne
you would dab on your wrists. A sign
of the library of regrets I’ve amassed.
And there is so much that I want from you;
but so little that you would give to me.
Come, we’ll uncork a bottle of red wine,
left behind from a feast. The last
reminder of days where the bright
sun tinted us gold. If no one speaks,
perhaps your ghost will no longer hide
in my lonely recesses, away from sight.