Everything is empty.
The room in my mansion of a mind where I used to keep you, and everything you were to me is empty. It's a cold dark void that echoes the memories whenever I open the door. The smell; no, stench; no, fragrance of you is burned into the floor. Maybe if I lay on my stomach and scratch at the wood I can smell it once more.
The walls are a light brown, the color of your eyes. When I open the curtains and the light shines in, the walls magically turn green, and blue, and yellow and all sorts of browns. But wait, no there is no more curtains blocking out the sun. I shouldn't think of these things. I'm conjuring up the dusty curtains that are rotting in the basement. They are replaced by the wood panels that I nailed into wall, so angery that my fist bled. Because I was not using a hammer, no you took that when you left. I had to compromise and use the hands that you held onto, oh, god no, more happy horrible memories.
I remember you were not holding onto my hands you were letting me tangle mine in yours so that i couldnt get out. All you had to do was slip your hand away to leave. But in order for you to do that, you would have to bend and break my fingers, loosening the vise they made. And thats exactly what you did that night when you were not thinking of me.
When you were thinking of her. When you were building a room in her mansion that was much brighter, bigger, and shinier than mine. Those nights when we laid in your room, you were slowly packing your things and I didn't notice until the furniture disappeared. I begged you to stay. I begged you to not think of her the way you thought of me. You told me you never in a million years would. You told me you loved me. But you said that to her as well.
I suppose the room is not empty at all. Physically, it shows me nothing but the remains of our relationship, cold and bordered up; gone. But the memories echo and bounce around the walls and seep from the floors. The room is empty but the memories fill it up.
