Echoes of Absence

I often wonder how things are,
When I leave my home afar.

Does the air grow stagnant, heavy, still,

As time stretches out with no one to fill?

Are the whispers of the wind still heard,

As it dances through the silent halls?

Do the floors echo each whispered word,

Recalling memories like ghostly calls?

Does the sunlight paint the walls as bright,

Or does darkness linger in each space?

Do the shadows tremble in the night,

Seeking comfort in my familiar face?

The furniture, sturdy and steadfast,

Rests undisturbed, in a static repose,

Does it miss the warmth of bodies amassed,

Or the gentle touch of fingers that chose?

Does the clock still mark the passing time,
Its hands unwavering, ticking away?
Or does it pause, longing for the chime,
Of footsteps that tread through the doorway?

The kitchen, once alive with scents,

Now lies dormant, devoid of cheer.

Do the appliances hum in harmony,

Yearning for the clatter of pots and pans near?

I ponder how the plants survive,

Without my touch to nurture their growth,

Do they wilt and wither, barely alive,

Yearning for the love I'd freely clothe?

The memories, etched in each nook and cranny,

Linger in the air, a bittersweet ghost,

Do they reminisce, remembering plenty,

As time stands still, recounting moments most?

And how the things must yearn and ache,

In the stillness that my absence brings,

But as I return, the home awakes,

With open arms, as familiar joy sings.

For it is not the bricks or the tiles alone,

That make a house, a place to be,

It's the love, the laughter, the memories sown,

That breathe life into walls, setting spirits free.