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.