The last visitors to our house
Sensed something was wrong
A marked lack of conversation
Pauses, which lasted way too long
Quite a lack of togetherness
You didn’t join us for the walk
No Bon-homie then offered
Rather, a stiffness to the talk
Hours of feeling awkward
Desperate to take their leave
Dust still on the floorboards
Heavy was the air to breathe
Unsure of where the love had gone
No sounds nor gestures made
Emptiness is the place of suffering
Darkness thus the tools of trade
That I didn’t see it, not a jot
Indeed, half thought all was well
That I did not reach out to realise
Is symptomatic of the lies I tell
