by Grant McLaughlin
This room is filled with memories. I can still see us putting new bed sheets on my bed, ruining the tucked in blankets 30 seconds after finishing. I can still see the bottle of champagne we put on my red book shelf in the corner of my room when we finished our second sleep over. I can smell the candles we put on my desk, filled with journals and papers. The candles are all put out now, the desk is bare except for the poetry that's scattered on it. Scattered like our clothes all over my floor now clean and clear of anything but carpet. I still see you grabbing blankets from my closet because we left the windows open at night so we could cuddle without getting hot. The paintings on the wall ' remember our first kiss when I told you you looked like the stars glowing in the dark. There's the feet prints we made on the wall when we'd press them against it talking about school and life. This is room is filled with memories of what I no longer love. I can see our glasses on top of my alarm clock when we went to sleep. This place was filled with love, now there are posters on the wall. I put your memories in a box in the back of my closet where I pick out my suits. The Christmas lights we used to see each other in the dark go unlit. Cold air continues to come in through the window, but I don't get a blanket, they're just draped over my desk chair. There's no spot for you here anymore, no free real-estate in my heart. I'm filled with memories, but this room holds nothing we shared anymore. The furniture has been moved around. I moved on.