After he died,
the house kept his rules.

The bowl stayed
by the radiator.
The window stayed
half open.

Hair held its shape
on the chair,
as if it hadn’t received
new instructions.

I vacuumed anyway.
The sound
startled me.

At night I waited
for the small weight
crossing the bed—
the pause,
the decision,
the careful arrangement
of sleep.

Nothing came.

In the morning
the sun reached the floor
where he used to lie
and moved on.

I stepped around it
out of habit.

Somewhere
a system closed.

---

Avriel Mejrah is a writer based in Massachusetts. His writing explores memory, transformation, and refusing to name what prefers to be felt. He is currently working on a chapbook titled A Planet on a String.