Silent House

I do not know the name of the place you went to

But your absence lingers everywhere

Like the stove’s smoke in the boiling soup pot

Your heart was warm, as when you stretched out your arms each time you saw me.

Now that warmth has become a memory within me,
It blends into the chilly evenings.
As if you still peer through the crack of the door,

As if about to call my name, silently

A half-finished tea on the corner of the table,
Cools slowly like unfinished sentences.
When you left, the house grew a little older,
Even the walls learned to fall silent.

And every morning I wake to the same emptiness,
I whisper your name, syllable by syllable, word by word,
I do not know if the place you went to is far or near,

But I always miss you from the same place.