Missing.

It’s the forgotten things, really.

The quiet reminders of someone who isn’t there at the present, but longs to be.

A lonely sock. A tiny bottle of shampoo. A shirt or a sweatshirt.

Dreams hidden beneath a pillow. Promises inside the icebox.

It’s the memories that impregnate the walls and the canvases and the picture frames.

Makes the space come alive with memories and nostalgia.

There’s a chapstick on the table that wasn’t there before. Fairy lights that were hung with 4 hands present. Skies observed from the balcony chairs.

How much of oneself is left behind with each of these memories. They exist only in the space they were created, then remembered like old sepia pictures inside a cigar box.

We come together in those forbidden places, waiting to feel a bit complete once again.