When it stops raining for days
Grass is no longer green but a dying brown
The flowers you gave me are wilting and falling apart.
When I stop checking the calendar for dates
Rows upon rows of empty boxes with redundant numbers
The pen I wrote with have dried up and gathered dust.
When the house seems way bigger than it used to
The plastic cupboard light and echoes from the freed up space
Your favourite chair has lost your mark and sits quietly still.
When it gets difficult to look at the brighter things
Swinging in your chair to pass the time and imagine all your dark shades of clothing
Writing pretentious sad things as distractions from the void within.
When you have become a habit and a constant
That once my skin is not against yours
I feel so homesick as all your familiarity is so far away.