Phones ring in an empty house

Reminding the walls they are alone

There are no lights on now

No water running or radio whispering

Just silent hallways with mirrors reflecting

Paintings, whose beauty is for no one

The comfort of the living room couch

Is meaningless with no tiny legs to fold up

On its big plush pillows

We will never see the state we leave

Our dwellings in

In true emptiness, no one witnesses

How the refrigerator hums

To keep its self from weeping

How the stairs creak on their own

Settling in to their solitude

And the railing, untouched

Is chilled by its own cold wood

Wishing only to be held and feel useful