Our Messes

They were ours.

They consisted of old Indian food containers, piles of papers and drafts falling over, precariously balanced books and plants spilling over their pots. Coats flung on floors and crumpled, wrinkled bedsheets. Old coffee in almost every cup, sheet music just about everywhere and weird, miscellaneous objects we’d use for bookmarks.

The yelling at the beginning of the day trying to find our earbuds and keys which would be under seven layers of something. The loud traffic right outside the window and the club music that would sometimes rattle our windows. The music from the 80s we’d blare daily or the radio podcast that always got played as we cooked dinner (which was rare).

They were spastic and annoying and you’d trip over something every few seconds, but I kinda miss our mess.

After you moved out, the kitchen is too bare, no music really sounds right and the stacks of books aren’t as quite as high. I miss the mess of your laugh at midnight as we danced, the mess of how you tried to make coffee in the oven once, the mess of your shoes you protested to putting away, and the mess of us.

All of it, it was so messy.

But so were we.