graveyards have started to feel a hell of a lot more like home than this god forsaken house ever could. it's easier to sit in front of strange graves in beds of grass and weeds than even consider looking at the empty space where your shoes used to block the doorway, where you turned our welcome mat into an ashtray. the comfort I find in headstones from people I'll never know is nothing compared to how I felt pressed against your chest listening to your own voice boom within your ribcage; shaking the walls with every consonant you let escape your mouth. the overwhelming sound of silence across the grounds is all that I can hear in my hallway now that your laughter isn't lingering between the wallpaper and drywall. I swear to god I hear wilting pedals from forgotten bouquets the second my ear touches my **** pillow every night, I miss your snoring. I've found sick comfort in the way the grass is welcoming and forgiving, the way it happily took every poem I wrote about you and decayed them into the earth beneath it. I've left every trace of you I had at that ******* graveyard but I still can't bear to wash my sheets. I'm as good as dead to you and maybe that's why I've found a home 6 feet under every word I've bled out in your name rather than in this house and body you abandoned.