Today I walked into my room,
clean it is, for the first time in months,
and I couldn't help notice how the naked floors,
stripped of dishevel,
made my room feel vacant.

With the bed made,
the fluffed pillows no longer felt
like a place to rest my stricken face.

The carpet, cleaned and vacuumed,
seemed only fitting if a loved one were to enter
after I was long gone,
and once this thought raced through my mind,
I no longer felt accomplished
by my simple arranges.

It's strange to be inside a room that is built
austerely for me
when I have convinced myself
I am no longer alive...
a room that I made mine
with walls of purple,
its homemade curtains,
its hand-painted doorknobs,
bookshelves,
and dressers.

...that brief mourning,
I may have found,
is what it's like
to enter a room
that was once someone's dreams
and not have them there.