I want to tell you that I miss the room with your hanging photograph on the wall of the room, decorated with twinkling lights between them.
I want to tell you that I miss the conversation we used to have, through a night without rain and you lay there, beside me.
I want to tell you I miss the light of the room emerging from the doorway, then you go inside without knocking it first.
The window hanging on the left side, a bench facing out, and the sight of people passing by are your favorite place when you visit me, right here, and you always sit there.
These walls are cold, and so is my body.
Likewise our first room.
You said what you liked.
A poem, but I didn't get to write it first. You said that you loved poetry.
But now, I love it more than you were yesterday.
Absence is now widely scattered on the floor,
and poems,
and cigarette butts,
and dust,
and tissue,
and tears,
and everything that ever lived in our heads.
And this room misses you.
They bring sadness through a night that is now often raining.
I wish you were here now, beside me. But it is a sentence that has no place in this poem.
Even though I'm currently writing it.
I want to tell you which I should be able to say.
This room lost its warmth.
I wish I could hug you again.
But time first killed me.
And I lost everything.