The Tenant, Absence

I was once called Home, before the fire,

said the quiet man beside the closing door.

Now every room repeats what I no longer am.

The hallway hummed with ash and old desire,

walls listening like witnesses at war.

I was once called Home, before the fire

Outside, the dusk rehearsed a softer pyre,

smoke writing names the wind could not ignore.

Now every room repeats what I no longer am.

He held a key grown thin with useless wire,

its teeth remembering what they were for.

I was once called Home, before the fire.

Time learns to circle what it can’t retire,

returning grief to places sworn secure.

Now every room repeats what I no longer am.

I left him where the light began to tire,

carrying a silence not my own.

“I was once called Home, before the fire;

Now every room repeats what I no longer am.”