letters from my bedroom

prologue

It's the light that pours through your windows. It's the cold rush through your bones in the morning.
It's the beautiful hurt that comes with love and the intoxicating power that coincides with rage. It's as intimate as whispers under sheets and wandering hands.
It's the black ink on the page you know so well. Oh yes. It's his eyes.
You bleed black ink onto lost notebook sheets and they don't understand.
It's the lands they've never pictured in their minds- the ones you see clearly when you close your eyes.

It's the fitted sheet with your scent on it.
The smell of old books and magic.
Memories clearly written on the walls.
A bed for one that once was for two.
The sketches strewn about the floor.
The music that once played, haunting the space.
The straw that was once part of a broom.

Yes, dear.
These are the letters from my bedroom.