Empty Room Poem by royness ( ' ' )

The room is empty, except
for a bulb hung low from the ceiling,
a ring on the dresser, you swore
never to leave; these flowers
that curl into themselves.

The room is empty, and yet
sometimes,
I think I hear footsteps -
clothes rattle on hangers, shuffled
by invisible hands,

voices
escape from under the door.

I imagine
figures at the window –
shadows, ghosts –

You left three weeks ago.

The room is empty.
These flowers curl into themselves.
A bulb on a noose
swings low over the bed.