The Apartment is still alive...

The apartment is still alive this
morning, though no one’s here.
Still alive with the vanished presence
of people on the couch, in the dining room,
laughter in the kitchen. It breathes in
October’s cold air, billowing the drapes
like the hem of the woman’s skirt who left
with the rest of the family into the night;
leaving behind ashtrays filled with butts,
a napkin crumpled like a dead flower,
and a little cup that still breathes a 
sweet smell of cognac warmed
by the lamp’s honest light.

The apartment is empty now,
alive with the silent music
of life’s vanished presence.