The same shadow you carried with you
is still wearing me.
The light is on, dispatching a dim warmth,
to keep ghosts away.
And the ink on the paper isn't dry yet.

The same aura you left me with
is still roaming in the air.
My bed is made, the red blanket is on it,
so are the two black cushions.
And the dust is covering all of them.

The same song you found me dead to
is still playing on repeat.
I left the keys to my room on the second shelf
next to my broken mug.
And the door doesn't have a lock anyways.

The same stench you made out of me
is still infiltrating our memories.
The pictures that hang on my walls
are fatigue and ashen.
And your face is turning into a blur.