i feel like i’m staring at an empty room. it looks brutally identical as yesterday.
the book on the floor—you. the old tv (which doesn’t turn on anymore)—you. the metal framed glasses—you. the dress shirt that was mine—it looked better on you.
if i ignore all of it i’m indeed just existing alone in these four walls.
this morning our photos were half on the floor. scattered in a pitifully pretty way. adhesives pointlessly ruining each other by sticking to the wrong side, the wrong things, nothing at all.
nothing could be held up, at all.
in the coming weeks i’d spend days sitting in the house, listening to the sound of photos falling. it’s a ripping sound. as if the flimsy paper didn’t just commit an act of falling but was in fact abruptly torn down.
i decided to leave the room as it was. wasn’t really a decision, i’m just afraid of going in. i’m afraid if i walk in and stare at the empty walls my memories of you would get wiped away, all the same, just empty, nothing left.
i think negligence killed us after all.