The Same (Poetry)

Every now and then I pass the house
and it still looks the same —
imposing — solid — impervious to time.
Yet everything has changed —
you no longer live there and
that fact itself seems strange.

Old habits throw a searching glance —
I can’t convince myself
I’ll never catch your shadow move
back from the window’s glass.
You’ve gone away for good
(or ill) — your home now someplace else

I’ve never seen ... Thus memory is stubborn
                                        and insists
all should stay unaltered —
you belong here even though
I know you moved out years ago
your name is on each brick
and the history we shared
                                claims timeless ownership.