I worked on this a little...

The house gets quiet at night,

Sound bounces up and down the walls,

I think it’s hollow,

Scooped out and left to dry.

The leaves fall from the oak tree outside,

Spreading themselves over the front yard.

It’s autumn today, the seasons have kept changing,

Can you see it?

It’s garish and vibrant and sometimes hurts this space in my chest.

It’s a burial, this season.

But I know I won’t find your body in the leaves.

In my house, the ceilings are high.

Sound echoes,

It’s getting cold,

I feel it in my knuckles when I type.

I taste it in the apple I left on the counter.

The food and books and plants take up space,

In the room that I painted,

My hands were blistered and stiff,

The fumes made me reel,

Where were you to pull me in?

The silverware in the kitchen is nestled together,

Waiting in drawers,

The house is resting, sighing and groaning as it takes up space.

But it’s not the same kind of space,

The moving, talking, touching kind of space.

The warm kind of space,

The laughing kind of space,

The space that has hands and lips,

Fingernails and collarbones,

The kind of space that plays guitar badly,

That sings off key on the porch.

The space that rearranges me,

The space that moves me up,

And over to this side of the bed.

I'm worried my poetry sounds too much like Anne Sexton's because I'm obsessed with her and she's all the poetry I've been reading. But let's be real, I couldn't imitate her if I tried. I do know this poem comes from me, whether it's good or bad.