Leaving His House

The room was always dead.

Spongy carpet, a cheap mattress.

The mirrored wardrobe that failed

to create space.

Curtains too big that stroked

the never made bed.

But it was his room.

 

Between hitching breaths and deep sniffs

the rain hammered the roof and windows.

Surrounding me, covering me,

weighing me down, empathising.

I looked back but only saw

a door draped in shadow.

Then outside, never to return,

the downpour cooled my face.

Climbing into the car, I prepared

for unwanted conversation,

clutching a bundle of clothing

that felt far too small to be

all that was left.

 

Now his room too was dead.

There was little for me to take

because I was never really there.

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