The Empty Room

his jean jacket hangs waiting on the chair. his floor is littered with gum wrappers and scratched lyrics and crumpled tube socks and little pieces of him. i press my face into his pillow where his smell is the strongest. his letter is clutched in my hand, and i imagine him there. his sleepy eyes half propped open, his gapped and toothy grin wide. the flannel sheets are soft beneath my raw skin and i can feel the vibrations from the amp he left on. it is silent in here. in his empty room. he is gone. buried in the dirt with every dream and hope we had together and i am here, among the tangles of the cords on the floor. the floor cool and unforgiving, like every day leading up to this one. his red guitar stares at me from above and rage rises inside of me. bubbling boiling bursting forth i smash his favorite red guitar against the floor. the wall. the desk. i smash it until it is littered with the other pieces of him and the swollen sadness inside of me subsides.