unmade

Now that there’s not a shadow of my existence in that apartment, let alone my smell,

Is your bed still lying unmade and messy, uncannily resonating with how my life became, after you?

Unorganized, disoriented, cold, wrinkled.

I remember how cracked it made you that I was a morning person, who loved to rise with the sun, sip on some honey-lemon tea, weave my fingers through your hair and watch you let out an annoyed groan and roll away to other half of the bed when my alarm would go off and all I would get from you is a rather sarcastic eye because the alarm yet again, did not go off on time or perhaps, I was simply too early to leave the bed.

I remember how I’d drop the spoons and mugs, make some unnecessary hubbub in the kitchen

And how you’d come from behind, get the pack of milk out and shut the refrigerator as a simple act of vexation.

But I also remember how you slid you hand under my shirt and sniff off of my ears and tug at it.

‘The bed needs to be made’, I’d say.

You never listened.