i'm back from outer space

on the end of the bed, staring at the wall, at the spaces between the postcards, beside you. i was guilty of not trying hard enough to memorize every detail, noise and touch. and even more so for trying to forget all of these things. washing my sheets and burying mascara-stained pillows in the ruins of my room, never to be accessed again. and it makes me think it's a good thing that you are gone. but you were always leaving, the whole time i knew you. goodbyes are hard to erase from sheets and faces and memory. especially when there is no other documentation then my self-serving cheek and the prick of your lips.