Plastered to the wall are memories of me. I am in your sheets and bedspread, your kitchen and driveway. I am imprinted on your couch, lingering in your halls and thoughts. My reflection was once in one of your mirrors, my hand once on one of your door handles. I am in your closet rummaging through sweaters, I am in your garage waiting to leave.
I am everywhere. You won't forget me simply because I am not present; I'm more present than you realize. You won't see me, but you'll feel me and understand how this kind of presence is the most alarming.
You can hide from from physical things, but your feelings will someday roll through like a train off the tracks into your heart and mind and you won't be able to hide, not even in the comfort of your own home, because my presence will be there. You will remember and feel me, and realize that I was the realest thing you ever had.
I won't be tangible by then though. You will only have your halls, your kitchen, the empty mirror, the untouched door handles to remember me by, because I refuse to wait around for someone who will wait that long to see what's in front of them.
Good bye.