my voice echoes in this empty house
on a thursday morning in a time
where you no longer walk the floors
and touch the walls of it.

i imagine our time, our short youth;
the sun rays passing through the shades
of my room sides on your sleeping skin
your soft arms, everything.

i can't describe clearly enough
for i didn't get to look long
enough for the last time.

i miss you from the other side.
i can't make the perfect poem.