You are imperfectly absent

unlike god,

you are in the empty house

too big for me.

You are outside,

in the thick ancient walls

where I run my hand

and make my finger bleed.

You reverberate

in the space,

surprised by my voice

uncertain.

You are the absent answer

to a cry stifled in my mouth

with a handkerchief.

You are not

where I reach out, when I try

foolishly, because I know

the house is empty, the bed all mine, the shoes too big for me.