You’re not here.

Feet pressed firmly to the floor

Light wooden panels too young to creak

First night inside your room

It’s not how I remember it

The piles upon piles of books are gone

Only one out of three kindles remain

All pictures removed except for one

Like silent thieves over time picking away

At the contents but with a courtesy to leave at least tiny pieces

Of what might remain of you.

Inhale slow, the air clear, not a sound

The room was yours but it’s not familiar anymore

You’re not here