I Can't Breath You Anymore

The sun set six hours ago,

but the clock in this kitchen is stuck in your absence.

I stand here, under the flickering yellow bulb,

its stutter began the day you left—and it hasn’t stopped.


The half-moon hangs in the sky,

watching me through the window,

feeling me without you beside me.


The floor catches the moon’s reflection,

staring up at me while my feet leave wet prints.

The hum of the refrigerator trembles against my skin,

distant dogs bark, digging silence deeper into this room.


I walk to the fridge,

my eyes pausing on the ring you left behind.

The cold bottle of water burns in my hands,

my fingers freezing without your warmth.


The moon watches through your favorite corner,

as I take a sip that cannot touch my thirst for you.

The bulb flickers faster,

throwing me into darkness where your memory hangs.


My breath falters,

the last word you spoke pressing heavy in my chest.

In this moment,

I realize: I cannot breathe you anymore.


I cannot even breathe.

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