The place feels empty, but it cannot be:
The shelves are still the same, the books are there,
Every item is still in its place.
Yet every step I take echoes to me
Through the still and overopen air.
It ought to echolocate, ought to trace
Her body by its absent echo, yet
I feel the walls surrounding me reflect
In each direction, none obscured or gone.
It would be easy if I could forget
Her absent presence, but I recollect
It all too well - her vacancy is drawn
By every sound I make. I knew she'd go
But I did not expect this new echo.
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