A shelf of books.
Many books.
I know every one.
A half-empty glass of coffee sits on the table,
cold from neglect.
A phone number is taped to my phone.
I’m timid with these things.
I’ll call it one day.

Blankets cover the floor in a bed’s stead.
Colourful yarn,
tartan and roses,
soft and eclectic.
Comforting.

Black and white photos
that I love and don’t know why
cover the walls with faces.

I sit on the floor and cry.
Nothing will be the same.