That you left your keys on my night stand. There is a scent of lavender where your body used to lay. I have the pictures of our garden in the spring. I think about the plaid we shared, with patchwork of old blankets. Through the back door, there are daisies and poppies flourishing. They remind me of your nap on the grass. After a long day, I would run my fingers in your shiny hair. Soft, glowy, they were strong and long.
I can't believe what is left of you is those keys. One for your car, one for your door, one for the door of my house, one for the mailboxes. I made sure you felt at home. I feel your presence watching me when my back is turned to your side of the bed. I stay silent in case I hear your voice again. At night, when I can't shut my eyes, I am sure to feel your hands through the walls.
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Where to go now?
My house doesn't feel like my home anymore. I have your favorite cereals out on the counter, your pajamas are still in the dryer, I have a left cane of your favorite pasta sauce. At the store, I make sure to get what you like, as well as my favorite ingredients. I cook meals that would satisfy both of us. The quantity of food is now too much. I try to cook for one again, but haven't been successful yet. I turn up the radio loud when your songs are played, they are from old punk rock bands to jazzy tunes of the year. I can't believe two weeks have already passed now.
I fear the summer is now ending, blending into a sunless fall. Observing the orange and yellow tones progressing on the leaves of the maples in the backyard, I see your shadows in the grass. Next to me, in our bed, there is the shirt you wore the day before departing. It's a black shirt worn out to dark grays, with the logo of some old band you cherished. Your scent lingers in it. I make sure to smell your perfume when I am panicked by the thought of losing the memory of your smell.
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Where to go now?
Three weeks and I can't still figure out why you left. Your phone was left in the back pocket of your velvet jacket, the one you wore through all winter, through the first moments we shared. I will forever picture you waiting for me at that bus stop, under a cloudy sky, with a slightly nervous grin. You checked your phone at least three times before you saw me. Now, I am left wondering where did you go, why did you leave, why didn't you left a note, a text, something to understand. I wonder if you ever thought about me before closing the door, one last time, on our home, on our life together. The day you left, the sun was shinning so strongly, I couldn't stand outside more than five minutes without feeling completely blinded by this incredibly powerful light. Even with sunglasses, it seemed as if everything was glowing by their reflections.
