The orange sun descending, nestling its sleepy head into the curves of the earth. The plains dusted with pink haze. The sky kisses one corner then stretches to meet the sun just before it departs. The day ends as our time here arrives.
The same dust collects on the shampoo bottle left in the cabinet below. Its layers tell me a story of the days I’ve missed. The mundane ring on the wood underneath it stares back at me when I pick up the bottle, as if I’ve separated two long-acquainted friends.
The softness of your cheeks. The light in your eyes. The warmth of your laughter. These haven’t changed. I enfold you in my arms and you fill my heart again, like a cozy knit blanket, handed down from generations before. Familiar and antique, you smell as sweet as the candles you love.
The sickness inside contains confusion, unrest, delusion. Everything looked like home but something was off. I lie awake wondering, have you changed or have I?
The afternoon sun casts a low shadow on the blue walls inside. The piñata still hangs above the clock as it ticks loudly. Amidst the signs I created and tissue paper flowers I hung, are scattered pieces, new and unfamiliar. Inside the empty room a feeling of love and passion remains. I am no longer needed here.