The place you once called Home

I can still see the lines where your furniture stood tall and heavy,
keeping hid these carpet stains. But you
don't live here anymore, and I never met you.  I'm just guessing you
were someone with a closet
full of outfits, one or several to depict your every mood. I don't know you
but here I stand in the place you used to.  On rainy days a hideout,
on sunny days the place from which you wandered, seeking warmth; returning
when darkness cooled the air and you felt tired again.
I'm guessing you were someone with
a chair that faced a corner facing
something else.
I don't know you, but here I am, still reaching with a broom,
still knocking down cobwebs you left behind.