I See Ghosts In My Bedroom Mirror

I see ghosts in my bedroom mirror,

let me clarify I only really see one.

I see the way her room was painted purple, black sharpie forming vignettes of a person who lived here before I.

I hear the subtle beat of music in a language I won’t understand until after she goes.

I hear giggles of a teenage dramedy, the kind of nostalgia-inducing, jealousy-inspiring laughter that forms the basis of poems with comparisons to stars.

If I listen hard I can hear the heater ticking, the same way it must’ve when it lit your mattress on fire.

There is no metaphor there, when you left I remember finding the scorched side of your mattress.

Sometimes, I feel like an archeologist, this bedroom the dig site. Unearthing old necklaces and Sinatra records you couldn’t fit in your suitcase. It’s been at least a decade I think? Do you miss these old records and painted over walls? I’d like to think so. I want so desperately to reach out and ask you, but I’m scared that if I do, I will have to confront the concept of you leaving me too.