Goodbye, My Room

What do I do with missing you like this?

Where does it go? What can I say?

I could repeat it all day, in all the moments I think of you. And I find your ghost once again, but it's not quite like before. I could see your eyes, tree rings marked on them. Now it seems they've been cut down, felled.

Your words have faded out. Your handwriting too.

I remember you from the pictures and the ticket stubs and the gifts you've left for me.

I hang onto every piece I can.

The sun still shines on the corners where you used to be. Where your laughter bounced off and it clinged to my ears. Where secrets were told.

Our (now broken) home, you changed every part of it. From artworks to starlight, and the smell of baking too. Constellations pasted on the ceiling, some with less than stellar names.

Songs about bears sung in the shower. Therapy chickens under pillow forts.

Sick days, making guides for games about countries that don't exist.

People who I refuse to acknowledge that share the same name I used to call you with.

Everything comes tumbling back to me. And for a moment, I feel like I can reach out again, on the other side of the bed.

And I break. None of that exists anymore.

It's more the being Unknown. Unseen. Unlistened to.

I tried pretending I couldn't see you anymore. A lie told a million times becomes truth, isn't it

...Except it's not. I feel like crumbling every time I pretend I don't. It's a lie by itself, denying the haunting. My words don't even make sense to me anymore.

Maybe I was the ghost all along. I wasn't really present.

Puzzle pieces can fit but not make the right picture. And you can't turn back time.