The silence is full of you

You come home late.

The key turns twice. You know the sound.

Inside it's dark, but not completely. You left the kitchen light on this morning. A mistake, months ago. Now it's a habit.

The coat goes on the chair. Always that chair. Nobody ever told you not to.

There's a glass in the sink. Yours. You left it there last night. It will still be there tomorrow, if you want.

In the bathroom the towel is folded badly. You folded it badly. That's fine.

You go to the kitchen. You open the fridge for nothing. You close it. A thing you do since you moved here. You don't know why.

You go to the window.

Paris is out there. The red rooftops, one after another, until they disappear. A chimney. One light on, far away. Someone is awake. Someone is always awake.

You stay there a minute. Maybe two.

You sit on the sofa.

Nobody is waiting up for you. Nobody asks how it went.

But the silence in here is not empty. It is full of you.

You get up. You go to the sink. You rinse the glass. You leave it there again.

You turn off the kitchen light.

This home is yours.