haunting

I have learnt to love these bones, how they creak

in the dark like the doors of an old house.

I am an attic room rocking chair, bare bulb

blinking as I listen to you rattling around downstairs,

the rusty hinges of your knees and soft padding of

the soles of your feet squeaking on clean linoleum.

It’s been a while since I descended to find you

mid-conversation with the toaster, watched you reading

in the armchair and pulled a blanket to your knees when you

inevitably fell asleep. I heard the first breath that caught

in the chimney breast of your chest as you inhaled into

consciousness, the spark in your eyes alighting.

I am the history, built into brick and mortar

and sold at a loss, driving the picket into the front lawn

grass and the mud of a hundred inquisitive footsteps:

the original owner, such a tragedy to it.

The van in the driveway having completed its transit,

bringing a new life with all your boxes in it, and

a snowboard you’ve only used twice.

I blow through your wardrobe, ruffling shirts and creasing

trousers, excepting the ones that flatter you most. Reflecting

from the mirror as you wash and dress in the mornings,

sometimes it’s easy to believe I could reach through the glass

between us to catch you before you knick your chin.

It's in these private moments that I see you.

When your new friends visit I knock something over; a stool

or a half-full wine glass, moving the picture frames off-kilter,

the scream of the blonde in the shower. I have died many times

in our living room when your phone screen lights your face,

and you open the door to let someone else in.