A house is a hollow object. An empty house naked memories of its inhabitants. An abandoned house is the summer of nature. A house without you is the appearance of your absence. Is entering its ghostly embrace, in his deepest fear. A house with me here is that it will or not, and the cafe and the symphony will be finished and out the rain will stop falling, the night disappear. A house that is showing me what would be a future without you. A home sad, too beautiful. A house that I dare not pass beyond the staircase landing, space studies, the futon without the wrinkles in the sheet to let sit. That's right. Your absence was deliberate. It seems you cleaned all your presence. Dust and wind and your breath be that these spaces are gone. Is your house twice without you. While looking at your things: your red purse, your pots perrier, your basket of postcards rescued from a sinking city, your bags, your books arranged in chromatic scales, your computer, your refrigerator full of Orangina. Maybe your hair removed ant the floor, the last vestige of you were here at this table layered blue writing. As I look you in this order that has your absence. Your shoes are not disengaging stroke geometric tiles, there are your papers scattered stabilo your feathers scattered around, not the resonating box of your smile, you're not. It seems to fit everything so you will not find, not find your tenderness wrapped in the chair, your beauty, your tall, your neck fine dispersed at some point in this house. Not, it seems that I write with this provision from where you are. Your house is a small world without you trod. Stir in the page, let it all go past his place, let the traffic is less heavy. At least I'd let the barking of dogs in the street, the howl of machinery, nothing. Only a huge roar in the sky. Only this symphony that is languishing. Only the half-cup coffee. Only these mediocre noise of the rain: without force, without you too. Only this house I get a free sample of your presence, not to find traces of yours, to enlarge absences. Still I wait, accurate, hunched in the blue table.
