They always say the walls are supposed to close in.
‘The walls are closing in’.
For me, the walls never did close in. Every room, instead, expands into nothingness as I stretch out my hand, trying to find a trace of you. A lingering smell in the clothes that you wore that lie unwashed, a faint disturbance in the uniform pattern of dust on the pile of old newspapers, an opened packet of your favourite biscuits. The walls seem to hold more room, and I am surprised I did not notice how big it feels without you in it. The extra room demands I fill it with extra belongings, and I give it what I can – my loneliness, my grief and my brokenness, enough to fill several rooms over. But somehow they feel at home in my chest, clamouring for room when there isn’t any more, growing day by day, refusing to leave, choking out the will to live (that must be?) central to every heart.
So we wait – your favourite sweater, the newspaper from the last day I wanted to be alive, butter cookies, and I. We grow stale, losing life and colour, waiting for your hands to pick us up again.
Title: The Pretty Reckless. The Walls are Closing In/Hangman.