Your room feels like a distorted desert.

Your items turning into sand.

Every time I try to hold them,

they slip through my fingers—

no matter how tightly I hold on.

I walk through your nonexistent prints,

still marked in the carpet.

Your shoes,

your heels,

your boots,

your sandals—

slowly dissolving in the wind.

The wind becomes iridescent,

glowing from your corner of light.

Where am I?

Where are you?

Am I really in your room?

Then why is it so lonely,

if you’re not here?

I follow your footsteps;

each step,

my heart turns sandy—

rough,

loose,

and powdery.

Your room feels like a distorted desert.

And I’m still wandering through it—

a place you never planned

to come back to.