I'm glad I left your room tidy.

When they come for your things,
I'll whisper your name,
why the room was too full,
too suffocating.

Too much, too little,
a glass half full,
its emptiness consumes me whole.
It tips over to the edge, barely in place.

You smile and smile and smile it seems so real, but the water is piping hot,
the smoke and ashes form pretty shades on my arms,
I can't help but choke.

An unquenchable thirst,
a lump in my throat that seems to burst out,
I cough, you wretch.

All for a flower.
I crush its leaves,
the petals in my eyes,
my vision clouds,
I stumble,
The plug is pulled.

The hotline is dead.
Sinking deeper, out of the ***,
and into the boiling sea.
The room is angry.
A raging fire,
spitting flames of contempt.

The pale, cold floor,
my eyes unfocused,
like your bed,
empty.

A dream of a future,
all gone.

The walls tear and chew themselves on the inside, the carpet shrivels up and sinks.
Red and roses were your favorite.

A pretty sight,
all the roses that bloomed across your chest,
the chill in your bones never seemed to leave.

Few of those flowers blossom.
Thick, long vines of red,
trickle down from my wrists and onto the floor,
spreading out into beautiful roses.

I'm glad I left your room tidy, my beloved.

Chores can finally rest easy tonight, and so can you.