the carpet just looks like dead grass now, brown and gray filling the sea floor of my room. the room in which i sob and scream and pout and combust into an open-warfare of emotions. you’re not in love anymore; how did it happen so quick? how did you walk out my door, dragging your feet against my molded carpet with the distinguishable smell of ***** and wine stuck on the inseams. maybe i’m supposed to forget, but it doesn’t feel right. i can’t bring myself to forgive you, but i can’t hate you either. you shut my door after you left. i haven’t opened it since. it’s felt like a hundred years with and without you. still i wait on this ill-filled sofa with the pillows you had gave me. sometimes i praise the footsteps that were imprinted onto the carpet when you walked out on me. i secretly hope you come back, although it’s a paradox.