This is the room that have witnessed us; the room we’ve met a few months ago. The room where no one has been in before you – not anyone important anyway. This same room that watched us flirt, play, talk, kiss. Other things, too.
It’s the same room and the same bed I go to every night, alone. The same room that every time I walk in, it reminds me of you now. It used to be my room, with my things: my bed, my clothes, my books, my necklaces and earrings. But it’s your room now. The room that reminds me of you, of you leaving as well.
It´s my constant reminder of you being here, and yet I can´t find any trace of you. Any trace other than that mark you left in my heart and soul. It´s intangible and untouchable, but it´s stronger and more everlasting than a stain that you could´ve left on the sheets.
Did you take note of everything about me the same way I collected every little detail about you? Your stare, your laugh, the way you relax beside me on the bed, the way you talk when talking to me, your touch, that mole on your chest, your big hands.
Did you notice everything about me? The perfume I wear, my shampoo, my body lotion, my toothbrush. All things I would have taken note of if going to your place. I would like to know everything that makes you you: what makes you smell like that, taste like that, glow like that, blush like that; leave like that.
And here comes the tough part: the memory of you.
You were once an expectation, later a reality and now a memory. One thing is to imagine our time together. What our little talks would be about, what you´d laugh at, what I’d say, how we´d end up naked. But the real ache is having to remember it over imagine it.
Because remembering implies that it happened and that it was real. He was, for a short time, yours. But remembering also says that that moment is now gone, and him with it.