moving (pt 2) - non final version

the clothes folded nicely by your bed lie untouched

serving no purpose but to collect rust 

as if they are metal, the same as the doorknob to your room 

where your fingerprints remain 

the family portrait by the mantle bears a black splotch of paint 

that was conveniently dropped on top of your face 

your unclean macaroni dishes sit by the sink 

waiting for someone to scrub at their sides 

they’ve been there a week

you live here, but this house doesn’t show it 

if a visitor came in they might not even know it 

a thousand calls to you 

have been unreturned 

the last seventeen messages 

are replied to with one word 

and it’s only been a week. 

seven days, seven nights

i was so sure back then 

that sooner or later you’d return with an apology 

back then I didn’t have a single doubt 

that the next day you’d come, i knew you’d come

but moving on isn’t the same as moving out.