in my room

I dig into boxes 

with your pictures, where diaries

can hide you away from me. I find torn, tear-stained pages

where I realized your lacking

presence, but I know you were never a mirage

for there was a time when you were there, there in print with me

and the memories make me weep for 

missing your laughter.

But it feels good weeping, because I can deafen out the

empty echoes beneath my chest.

I fall asleep listening to songs that

remind me of you just so I can

hear you drift away from my conscience

knowing very well

you don't for you are still

the first bloody thing

in me

when I wake up.

I don't expect that

you will ever leave me alone,

though you have long gone

and I hate you for this. Because I loved

the tenhundredthousandmillion ways you made me feel

colossal.