Something Missing

I’ve found a house,
but it doesn’t mean that I’m home.

There are walls.
There is a roof.
But they do not hold me.

There are cracks
where air seeps through
tiny breaths
that don’t know my name.

The floorboards creak.
The things I do inside
are out of habit.

Cook.
Clean.
Go to sleep.
The plates and cups are okay,
but they do not feel like home.
I brought these things,
but they do not know my name.

There’s a house.
It has windows.
A sink.
A door.
All the things you expect.

I make a payment
towards the mortgage,
biweekly.

But there isn’t a single thing here
that holds me.
Not the way
you did.