A Broken Apartment

I’ve always slept better without you. I spread my bare limbs, pile up the pillows. I wiggle and worm through white sheets to find the cold spots. I sleep better when you are gone, so I stay in bed. I play with the sun; it slips through my fingers. I coil the sheets around me, and I water the prettiest thoughts, I ride all the right trains. As long as I stay here, I can smile at the wandering dust, settle into the quiet. The bed doesn’t miss you.

It’s the kitchen that does. The mug you like feels empty; the spatula you used just doesn’t have the energy to lift anything. Even the fridge has been saving a few eggs just for you. The dryer regrets your missing socks, and the washer just leaks, no matter what I do. My shower can’t find that sweet spot anymore; and my mirror, well, the world seems a bit more distorted than before. The lock keypad wants to feel your touch. The computer just repeats your playlist. The couch sags without your strong frame.

You broke my apartment. I tried to comfort it, but I am one person short.

I still have my bed, though. White sheets and sun beams, at least one thing in this apartment doesn’t feel so alone.


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