The ice rings out as the glass perspires, desperate shadows flung from the TV light. All the ghosts have gone to their graves, their dead hearts the sound of footsteps leaving. The street outside the window so busy and dark. The moths beat out the essential rhythm. The light left on is all that's waiting. The song that says she's coming home.
It isn't hot, but the heat is out there. It sticks in the shadows as hungry as a spider. The tires brush by singing like a river. Somewhere the music finds the heart it needs. The memories crowd like worried horses, all sweat and muscle and the twitch of panic pressing on the gates. The longing fills the empty hallways. It hangs in the cobwebs around the doors.
The ice is gone, the glass all empty. The TV mutters in thrills and wan delights. The voices carry though no-one's speaking. The haunted hearts that glut the night. The clock grinds on as traffic's passing. The porch light burns its dull refrain, dusty wings fluttering against the bulb. The stars are there but no-one sees them. The distance is rich with her absence. The light left on the one belief. The switch flipped once the most expensive. Hope is momentum, she must come home.