A place that isn't you

This poem explores the struggle of redefining "home" after the loss of someone deeply missed. It captures the tension between anger and longing, as the speaker grapples with the emptiness left behind

It's hard to redefine home as a place that isn't you.
I walk through the door, and the silence is deafening,
like the air itself forgot how to greet me.

Your absence is a shadow that wraps around the walls,
filling every corner with a hollow ache.
I breathe in, but it's stale,
like even the air refuses to be new without you.

I catch myself waiting for footsteps
that will never come,
for laughter that used to break the quiet.

I want to scream at these walls for not holding onto you harder,
for letting you slip away so easily,
for pretending they're enough when they know they’re not.

I try to convince myself that I can make this place my own,
but every room spits your name back at me,
like even the walls are angry you're gone.

I fill the space with noise,
with voices that aren't yours,
but the silence always finds a way back.

And I hate it. I hate that I'm still here
while you're a memory this place can't forget.
It's hard to redefine home as anything but you.