In front of a house in Las Piñas, September 29

I let the wind carry your name,
see if your house receives it.
A window flicks back dead skins of darkness.
I trace the passing time with my footsteps
circling outside the gate, waiting
a slight creak from an opening door.
That door remains closed, like the other doors
lining the street, never opening for me.
I measure the shadows' movements
with an aging day - stretching longer
towards the east where the sun rose.
The sky changes. The wind displaces
the dried leaves from where they rest.
The silence of your house is a creature
fat with hushes, crowding all the rooms.
How it must have shooed you away quickly,
no time to pick up sculptures of dwarfs
littering your little garden.
In its rib cage, my heart pounds why
departures seem hurried. No goodbye.