The clock on the mantle wheezes each interminable second.
The kitchen tap drips infrequently.
There's no rhythm here.
Everything's shrouded, not just you – the familiar coverings of dust and doilies.
Echoes of my last visit, only it's me who’s now sat motionless in the armchair.
Across the room your sightless stare takes in the patterns on the nicotine stained ceiling.
Outside, in the first rays of dawn, I hear the clink of milk bottles on the doorstep.
Such a small sound, yet there's been no milk round here for years.
You whisper, 'Go home now.'
I can't go yet.