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.