Season's Greetings

the house is empty, and what did you expect?
those noises at night. that banging on the window.
the musical mattress that seems to be resting on top of you, suffocating your every breath, reminding you in the morning that you'll be late for something.
you can hear the ghosts. you can feel the whispers.
you know they're out there. you know they're watching. but they've been long gone since her death.
shadows pretend to scream at every note you play on the piano, but your left ear has been blasted from your brain, while you torture the neighbors with your yawns and indifference.
you need a friend. you need a dog.
you can only sense she needs the same, but you're too lazy to even think of changing things.
the clock on the wall hangs motionless, dead from the celebrations of your failures.
you sigh. you weep. you smile for her, but she pretends nothing's wrong. it's all her. it's all here. that's the way her world moves.
she pretends it's all going to be a disaster, a headless god in a maze, a six-year-old girl in a wheelchair, when "OK" seems to describe things better, even if a little bit less poetic, a little less philosophical, more real.
you say nothing. you know it's too late. the floor is cold, and your feet are pale. the tracks on the wooden floor, on the carpet, clearly show how you've been walking from the bar to your room and back, and your room is as cold as the floor. there are no walls, no ceiling, just six cold floors waiting for you to warm up the air.
you wait. you're tired.
you sleep. you try.
you're alone.
what did you expect?