You are gone

But I don’t know what it means

Yet

So I sit in the chair you used to sit on.

I wait

For it to hit me,

The sharp pain,

As opposed to this numbing sadness.

I wait for the obvious,

My eyes are ready.

But what happens is that

The landlord storms in to use the microwave,

Whistling.

His kid upstairs is making kid sounds.

I am robbed of my catharsis.

I go back to my desk,

Where it’s colder.

I will let go 

Until there is nothing left

Anywhere

To cling to.

Don’t believe the Spring.