When She Leaves

I count the days, but more importantly I count the hours, but most importantly I can feel the minutes go by, since I’ve been in her presence.

I watch as the colours dampen and drain out of the room after she leaves, as royal blues become navy and bright blood reds become maroon and then brown.

I shiver as I feel the warmth escaping through the cracks and seams, a tangible drop in temperature and a slowing of the vibrations around me once they are no longer influenced by her energy.

I draw deeper breaths as my heart rate declines from a sprint to a jog, and from a jog to a stroll. I can taste the dust on air that seemed crisp and fresh just moments ago.

I can see the plants in my apartment begin to droop ever so slightly, as if the sun has dipped beneath the horizon and all light has begun to fade.

I hear the bird song outside in discord rather than the harmonious wonder I swear I’d heard while her attention was mine.

The ceiling light flickers above me and the tap drips once, twice to my right. The picture hung on my wall looks askew and the corner of my rug is upturned.

Why does everything seem so perfectly held together when she’s here, yet like a house in a tornado, it all starts to unravel when she leaves?