Not a sanctuary or support—
only bland, like old photographs:
sun glaring the surface.
The house is a lot quieter since they left.
In fact, charcoal drawings remain
upon the table, a success.
A smoldering match slowly,
ash and more ash wisping
until nothing is left but darkness.
And yet the sun remains,
eager streams to obscure
inside our home, welcoming.
If it’s even our house or
discarded match or drawing
or even so those old photographs.
