drip.

"drip."

The sound of a delicate dripping

swims through the silence

of this

     motionless home.

Nothing moves anymore

except the shadows,

     drip.

Outside 

the sun rises

and moves across the sky

casting

and 

changing

     the shadows inside each room.

          The only movement that exists now.

As daylight softens

the shadows silently

grow

and 

stretch

     across the floor

     and up the walls.

           drip.

Filling the whole home

with darker shades of day,

until the night is in every corner.

Each day is the same.

Memories captured

     in picture frames

telling stories with no sound.

Only painful reminders

of how alone this time of year can be.

They aren't here anymore.

It's just hollow here and empty.

drip.

This place is just a cavern

of painful memories now

with

     no one left to remember them.

drip.

Its been weeks

and the world continues

to move outside.

No one ever came around before.

No one comes around now.

When it happened,

it was because 

it finally passed the threshold of hesitation,

      A certain kind of courage filled his veins,

      drip.

There was only purpose

in the peace that could be only found

by letting go.

drip.

Its been weeks

and no one has found him.

There has been no movement in this home.

No sounds of footsteps.

No laughter.

Long before the delicate drip had any meaning

he had a warm bath.

The water has turned cold since then

and his hand hangs motionless over the edge.

There's a peaceful silence that hangs heavy in the air.

A painful sorrow that overlays the cold water

that lay motionless and silent

Until the next drip.

-Armando Torres