“No, I do not miss you– never.” The night begins to fall in a home where the ceiling never covers, only collapses. The night surrounds the chambers where this side of the bed runs empty, truly cold. But my labored breath fogs the mirrors you no longer look into. The tea you steamed by the sunrise turned cool, untouched in your bitter cup. Your name remains in my ruined psyche, every sound like ash, marking me corrupt; Not spoken, swallowed, hideous. The grave is not outside—it’s where I caved in as your soul finally gave up. Time apparently heals, like how hair regrows once it's cut as it holds memories. But time is the worst liar, it wears the sin like it’s the finest, most expensive silk. Its hands do not tell the hour of the day—it only slices further the fabric of your pain. In the depths of the night I sleep on my side, saving space for the ghost who won’t haunt me. But like the impression of you which bruises the silence, it refused to flee away from me. Therefore I buried it, like your last word I kept from breathing out back beneath my ribs. And I deceive myself as I water it, praying it never blooms out of the very land you stepped in.