The Weight of Empty Rooms by Olivia Salter | Poetry

 

The Weight of Empty Rooms

by Olivia Salter

I stand in the doorway, framed by silence,
A solitary figure in a house too large.
The walls whisper your names,
But you're not here to answer.

Family portraits stare with vacant eyes,
Smiles frozen in faded sepia.
I touch the glass, leaving fingerprints—
The only proof I still exist.

In the kitchen, your coffee mug waits,
A thin film of dust where your lips should be.
The fridge hums a monotonous dirge,
Drowning out the sound of my heartbeat.

Remember the oak we planted, Mom and Dad?
Its branches now scrape against my window,
A nightly reminder of promises unkept,
Of roots that didn't grow deep enough.

Sister, your room remains untouched,
A shrine to teenage dreams and rebellion.
I sit on your bed, inhaling the ghost of your perfume,
Wishing I could bottle your laughter.

Brother, your baseball glove gathers cobwebs.
I try it on, but it doesn't fit—
Like this role of being the only one left,
A misshapen family of one.

Nights are the hardest. I lie awake,
Listening for footsteps that never come,
For doors that never open,
For voices that never call my name.

Dawn breaks. I brew coffee for one.
The emptiness echoes, but I speak anyway:
"Good morning," I say to the void.
And for a moment, I swear I hear it answer back.

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