You guard the door to my bedroom. I’ve seen your ghost beside it sometimes. And it isn’t in the colour - your favourite earthy shade - or in the rust hugging the handle. It isn’t in the stickers clinging to memories, or in the poster clinging to the doorframe. It’s the one you bought for my birthday; do you remember? Nor is it in the lost flakes of paint littered below. Nor in the carpet, ripped from its rightful place.
Your ghost lies in your imprint here, the footsteps you made in this house. You were only here once. It sounds so awful, thinking of it. You only trod here twice - once in, once out - yet I have not stepped there since. I am afraid of walking into your footprints, afraid of the shivers down my spine when my back is turned.
Your ghost watches me sleep there restlessly. The floor is a mess of the past that I cannot bring my present self to clear away. I am worried it would destroy the shadows that you cast. At all other times, I avoid the room that your ghost guards. The curtains are left open at all times, the windows tightly shut. I want you to see the mess I left behind you, even when I escape it. Even so, you cannot enter. What I have left is untouchable.
Your ghost makes it so.
Your ghost waits here for you to die, so that I can fool myself into believing my own lie. You were forced to abandon me.