I lie here in my bed. Eyes open, but nothing to see. Not because it’s dark. But because everything around me is lifeless now that you’re gone. I used to talk to the walls. They’d speak lessons about listening with their silence. Silence had more words when you were here. Now I hear nothing. I don’t think you deserve this poem, essay, whatever the hell it is. I don’t think you deserve anything from me. I wish you had shot out of me like a bullet from a gun. With the only proof of you ever being in my chamber being that another bullet needs to be loaded in your absence. But instead, you leak out of me. From a tiny hole in my heart. Thick and slow. Funneling from all the corners of my body that you reached. It’s uncomfortable. You’re not all the way out yet. I don’t know when you will be. But your leak is starting to form into the shape of a head. I imagine next comes the neck. Then the shoulders. Each drip from my heart slowly lapping together the framework of you. Arms, hips, legs. And when the last of your spill has left me, and you stand facing away from the person that held you so near, I’ll have to watch you walk away once more. I won’t look away as you go. Even though I think that’s what you deserve. I won’t look away. I never did. I only pretended to.