by Enbah Nilah
The room seems to be picking up after us. Your rebellion, my petty revenge.
It got a whole lot quiet in here,
without my consent.
The room droops at its corners,
soaked in your absence.
There are too many stories
of lives lived together
spilled against its walls.
I guess the room knows farewell
before the people in it do.
The dent in your side of the bed,
the blanket you just refuse to fold.
Of all the rebellions,
you always chose a messy bed.
The toothbrushes with phantom owners
claiming that they still belong,
the nightly rituals of hogging the sink,
and garbled conversations
as you foam at the mouth.
The accidental slamming of doors
(just freeze, maybe this will pass us too)
and the angry slamming of doors
(You more so than me-
I’ve always been better at freezing).
The frame holding the embarrassment
of your awkward pre-pubescent, bob-haired self,
and my chipped teeth, I-am-a-boy-in-a-skirt self,
that conveniently goes missing
when we expect guests.
(It finally stands still,
proud of the picture it bears).
Your shoe boxes stacked aside
like the journeys that come to end,
the dressing table,
the once perpetual chaos
has now right itself.
The phone charger
that is permanently on,
the only sign of life.
(And there’s me.
Sitting on your side of the bed.
Warming it up.
I know you’d hate that
if you were here.)
The room seems to be picking up after us.
my petty revenge.
Because after all these years,
without my consent,
it got a whole lot quiet in here.