My house
The residence of echoing solitude
The birthplace of loneliness
Haunted by the ghosts of my imagination
The tinkling of children's toys or the boisterous laughter of a fun-loving father
The tiny yelps of a puppy or the cautious meows of a kitten
But the ghosts disappear as I enter
Ringing silence
An unsettling still
Nothing but the air whirring through the vents, carrying the hopes of what could've been
Nothing but the jingling of keys being placed on their hook
Nothing but the persistent drops of shower water
Nothing but the soft rumbling of dresser drawers opening and closing shut
Nothing but the gentle squeaks of the bed under my weight
Nothing but the internal sigh as my eyes close
I am alone

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