Inside me is a room.
The furniture has been dragged out,
rectangles of dust outlining
where everything used to be.
I never packed a single box.
Never lifted a frame from the wall.
But the walls are bare.
The window is open
and light cuts through
and the light is cruel.
It shows everything.
Every dent.
Every gouge.
Every place the weight of you once rested.
I stand in the center,
barefoot on splintered floorboards,
afraid to shift my weight
afraid even the sound of my breathing
might disturb what little remains of you.
The emptiness is loud.
It hums against my ribs
until I can’t tell
if it’s the room trembling
or my hands.
Every day I wake and take inventory:
dust,
nail holes,
a heart dragged across floorboards.
There is too much of you
and none of you at all.
There is no door.
There never was.