My room smells like fresh laundry and stale potpourri

and the desk is strewn with disaster, ripped paper.

The wall - smeared with burnt photos and whispers

and the dusty speaker won't play love songs again.

The carpet, new-vacuumed, wants dust to clothe its naked form

and the tables gleam, coated in greed and lust.

The windows have landscapes taped over them -

or might as well; I will never leave this place again -

and a single open soda sits stale near the closed notebook.

The door is ready for you to walk through, brushing

the posts with your fingertips as usual.

The pillow next to me hasn't felt a head in such a long time.

I need you - I sit propped up like a child's plaything

neglected, just waiting for your re-entry

burning, shining, sputtering onto the crisp sheets

that await you, and my arms and eyes await

you, and well what can I say besides the obvious

I love you?