There are indents on the floor from footprints of leaving
Photos once pristine are now red with anger,
Paper scattered over the floors containing the backers ink and the softest whimpers of hopeful questions,
The echoes of Why and What now play like the creeks of an old banjo,
the pile of memories crushed into a fine powder which coats the floor and the mind of the person who still has your face flashing through their mind,
the beating of a broken heart is steady throughout,
the tears create a river of memories and kind words and you that flood the floor, they are drowning in it all,
but one day, they will learn to swim again and their house will become home without you.