The house is dark.

I wish I could throw a switch and flood this place with life.

The way it once was.

No switch will do that.

I remain in the dark.

I would prefer to hear creaks, scrapes, mysterious thumps.

Unexpected footsteps moving quickly across the floor.

A door groaning open, the faucet’s drip becoming a torrent.

I would cry out, “Who’s there?” but know the answer.

It’s you. I miss you. Come back. This is where you belong.

But strain as I do, I hear only silence.

I would rather the house be filled with ghosts.

Toiling about invisibly.

Avoiding attention yet craving it.  

I would beg their notice.

Where is he? I would demand.

Remaining unanswered, I would vent my rage.  

You do not belong here! Why are you here? Why is he not?

There are no answers. There are no ghosts.

All that is here are memories.

They are burnt-out matchsticks scattered across the floor of every room.