I still look for you,
in every room I enter —
longing for your approval
as I walk through the door.

When it shuts behind me,
the lock slams,
deafening the room —
quiet, and cold,
my self-made tomb.

I left your cup out,
for your coffee in the morning.
You always liked it hot —
so I left the pot on brewing.

Then I retrace
your face, your contour —
mere shadows on the wall.

Maybe one day
I’ll forget this feeling —
like warm socks on a freezing floor.
I’ll look for you in the next room,
the sofa still imprinted,
the scent of sweet cherries lingering —
your favorite perfume
leaving a ghost
that keeps reminding me
how you left me — enchanted.