People Don't Leave Rooms

People don't leave rooms.
If I sit on the spot on the couch that I usually sit in, there's a big gaping hole across from me that looks awkward and uncomfortable and too barren to bear.
It's not an empty space, though.
It's a hole with something lingering.

The silence is louder than usual.
You can hear things, now, like a fly land on the drainboard.
Even putting music on doesn't help.
It knows I'm trying to cover something up so it doesn't sound the same.

Even eating inside has been weird.
It's like the food doesn't want me to make it.

You're holding on in places I didn't think I'd find you.
A t-shirt I stuck back on my shelf that I must have worn by you and didn't wash because it's your smell.
The sounds of motorcycles going by that we used to cringe about.
Geckos on my ceiling.

When you let people in
sometimes you don't know it's going to be forever.

The thing about living alone
is that every entrance leaves a strong mark.
Every sip of hot coffee
on lonely mornings thereafter
is loud and dramatic
And every nighttime
is a lullaby you must sing to yourself.

It's beautiful, in a way,
to live with yourself alone
for so long
keeping yourself company
And getting to know all the levels of your craziness.

Letting people in
sometimes carefully and cautiously
sometimes with corners tidied
and meals prepared with recipes...

And sometimes,
spontaneously
No second-thoughts
No house sweeping or bed-making
crazy salads and smoothies

Those ones
stay forever.