After He Left

They said
after he left
I would start
hearing things:

the heater
click-click-clicking
on and off,
cars driving by
at all hours,
the tap, tap, taping of
the dog’s toe nails
on the kitchen floor,
a phone call
at two am,
the crash of the ice
from the freezer,
the rattle of wind
knock-knock-knocking
at the front door.

They said
I would hear
remnants of
our life together
in the morning news,
the creak-creak-creaking
of sunken
floorboards,
in the way the
blankets rustle
to the floor,
and the way water
drip-drip-drips
from faucet.

But I don’t
hear anything,
only silence.
Nothing but
silence.

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