The Ghost Tenant

In the grand, empty concert hall of my own quiet heart, 

A lease was signed in silence, a hesitant, tender start. 

I opened up the chambers, swept clean the dusty floors, 

Believing in a future, behind unlocked, hopeful doors. 

But a former lover lingers, a presence I can't evict, 

A ghost tenant, unpaying, whose memory's strict. 

He still rents space within me, though the key was long returned, 

A haunting echo of a lesson, painfully unlearned.

He never paid the rent, not in coin, nor in true grace, 

Yet he left behind his furniture, in every sacred space. 

A worn armchair of comfort, where our quiet moments sat, 

A faded rug of laughter, where we spread our welcome mat. 

The scent of him, a phantom spice, still clings to every wall, 

A perfume of his presence, answering memory's call. 

It's in the sunlit corners, where our happiness once played, 

And in the shadowed alcoves, where unspoken promises swayed.

There's a dent within the mattress, where his form once softly lay, 

A permanent impression, that time cannot erase away. 

I try to smooth the linens, to fluff the pillows high, 

But the hollow of his absence, still catches my tired eye. 

His books still line the shelves, though their pages turn no more, 

Each title a reminder of the wisdom we explored. 

A coffee cup forgotten, on the table by the bed, 

A testament to mornings, and the words we left unsaid.

I wander through these rooms, now quiet, vast, and cold, 

A curator of memories, stories to be told. 

I open up the windows, to let the fresh air in, 

Hoping to dispel the specter, of where we used to begin. 

But the dust motes in the sunlight, dance with his fleeting form, 

A gentle, persistent haunting, weathering every storm. 

I rearrange the pictures, turn faces to the wall, 

But his laughter, like a whisper, answers memory's call.

The echoes of his footsteps, still resound upon the stair, 

A phantom presence breathing, in the quiet, empty air. 

My heart, a rented dwelling, where the lease runs on and on, 

Though the true inhabitant, with the morning light, is gone. 

I yearn to change the locks, to paint the walls anew, 

But every brushstroke falters, still shadowed by his view. 

The power of this permanence, a weight I cannot lift, 

A ghost within my chambers, a bittersweet, unwanted gift.

In the grand, empty concert hall, where my soul finds its refrain, 

The music of his memory, plays on through joy and pain. 

And though the stage is empty, the applause has long since ceased, 

The ghost tenant of my heart, will never be released.

- Khushi Kaul