Since She Left

buzz

dust settles in the curve of your eyelashes, but you don’t bother to brush it away. lying in the same position as yesterday, the covers sunk around the outline of your fragile frame, you’re discovering pictures in the swirls of paint in the walls. pictures of places you’ll never see. a fly buzzes somewhere in the house, trapped between a screen and a pane of glass. caught between two barriers, the fly is buzzing. the mattress makes a sickening creak as i sit down, slicing through the silence and bouncing off of portraits lining the walls from outside of the door to the end of the hall. family portraits. happy people. ghosts. i’m pulling a rogue thread out of the hem of my sweater when you tilt your head up to look at me. bright green eyes once, now just empty shells. you don’t speak, but i know what you’re thinking. you’re thinking that you have been trapped your whole life. trapped by your family, your friends, your church, your school, your religion. trapped by your own damn insecurities and shortcomings. you don’t say it, but i know what you’re thinking. i had this notion, this notion that i could somehow break down these walls you’ve built for yourself. it seems i’ve only closed the walls in on you. my caged bird. my wounded sparrow. if you love something, set it free. and now you’re just looking at me, your eyes searching mine for any sort of explanation. somewhere the trapped fly is buzzing frantically. it makes a soft thud as it repeatedly hits the inside of the window, somewhere in the house. the soundtrack to your wordless questioning. i must have not had anything good enough to offer you, because now you’re sitting up. you’re sitting up and you’re putting on your jacket. you’re grabbing the keys off of the dusty bedside table and you’re disappearing out of the room. i’m staring at the imprint in the bed where your body was just moments ago. your slow, dragging footsteps are making a hollow echo as you make your way down the stairs past the smiling, happy ghosts in their frames. i don’t cry. not yet. i fall into your imprint next to me and i can smell your shampoo. for a split second, my eyelids are projection screens flashing glimpses of sunlight, tangled limbs, and bright green eyes. they used to be so vibrant. the front door is opening. i don’t even have the heart to run after you. outside a car door is slamming. an engine is starting. i hear gravel rustling. if you love something, set it free. the old house settles on its foundation with a creak, as though it were breathing a sigh of relief. you left your phone sitting on the dresser. you have no use for it where you’re going, anyway. i’m alone on the bed. alone in the house. alone in the world. and somewhere in the house, the fly’s buzzing stops.

submitted by skatieb.