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.


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