You're Not Home

He sits alone, dinner leaking heat like the candle lit too early for your timetable. Every sound in the door is a key, Every click and sigh of the empty house - A heartbeat. You’re not home. Hands filled and emptied So rapidly that they are scraped, The hands that feed. Soon you will burst through the door Like a tropical storm, All bright colours and destruction. He will try to take shelter from The storm with the storm Yourself. You are a rain cloud, hovering, Ready to slash yourself open And fall from Heaven. He sits alone, dinner congealing; Hardening. But beneath the cold I glimpse the shine of desperate hope. And you’re not home.