silent house

It's not a good thing that instead of 
scolding and incessant talks, 

the radio speaks to cover the silence; 

it sounds strained: is it feeling uncomfortable?

It creates noise in a room

where living beings create none. 

Ironic, isn't it, how non-living things 

appear to be the only constituents

of a house that was meant to be a home? 

Typhoon 8

The waiting starts as the typhoon does, the cover of my book: 
a bright turquoise green, a splash of neon pink, 
(as I write this, our song starts playing through my headphones, it makes me sad). 
My door is slightly ajar, my back faces it, 
I glance up at every passing shadow, I beckon
but none of them are you, so I continue reading Flowers for Algernon.  
The wind picks up and at least I'm not alone anymore, 
although I would rather be, because the wind is not kind, 
the wind mocks me for having no self respect, 
for valuing communication while not being communicated to, 
so I check my phone again, there are many people dangling 
but none of them are you, so as you leave me, 
I leave them hanging. 
My interactions with the people closest to me 
remind me never to have expectations, 
but to not have expectations means I will never get to let people in, 

and I wanted to let you in.