The house is dark. It’s an empty dark.  

Bottomless pit black.  

I wish I could flip a switch and flood this place with light. With love. With life.  

The way it once was.  

So brilliant, so happy, so dazzling.  

Forever bright, the fool thought – to myself.   

Infinity belongs to the night. There is no switch to turn it off.    

This place is too quiet. Too still.  

I would prefer creaks, scrapes, mysterious thumps.  

Unexpected footsteps moving quickly across the floor.  

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

“Who’s there?” I would cry.  

But I would 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.  

The house is haunting. I would rather it be haunted instead.  

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.  

The only things here are memories.  

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