Our ceiling has an outlet. Every time I tip my head back and look up, I can see it. And who knows how long it’s been there. And who cares really?
Because you aren’t here. And it’s not funny to see it when you’re not here with me to laugh about it.
When the shower-head exploded last week and I had to call the landlord to replace it and the woman from the apartment downstairs came up to knock on the door to tell me the water had dripped down through her ceiling, it wasn’t funny. When I fell asleep curled up uncomfortably on your grandmother’s tiny Italian couch, my feet and head hanging off either end, that wasn’t funny either. Not even when a boy was singing and playing his guitar under my window, almost as if he was serenading me but most likely he was drunkenly serenading the night. Nor when I saw the apples you left in the fridge wrinkling like pitiful little balloons, losing all their air and collapsing into themselves.
You didn’t knock on my bedroom door to tell me to get up. To ask me if I wanted to go for breakfast at that breakfast place we always go to with the most delicious home-fries and your favourite blueberry jam.
You didn’t take over the kitchen with all your dishes, your 90’s dance party music blasting through the apartment, waking me up and then lulling me back to sleep because when you’re here I feel safe enough to sleep.
I feel safe when you’re here, you know?
I know if I feel the sadness well up in my throat, I can open your bedroom door, lie on your bed with you and not have to say anything.
I know if I need to be outside, you’ll come with me and I won’t feel so aimless and lost just walking around like I do when I’m by myself.
I know I can talk to you about anything and maybe you won’t approve of some of the crap that I pull because you want the best for me, but you’ll be supportive anyway.
I know that sometimes I feel sad even when you’re here but that you’re my best friend in this whole wide world and when you’re not around I’m less.
I’m less than me.