I took so many things for granted. I would look at him as he worked at his desk, his laptop open and all his peculiarities on display. His gestures, mannerisms; his subtle laugh as he browsed through his daily online jokes and political opinions. Those throat-clearing coughs echoing in the background of our apartment like kitchen wallpaper. “Wanna see something funny?” he would ask, frustratingly pulling me from my own self-important typing. These are memories. And they all will evaporate in the sunlight of time.

But now from my pillow, I stare at his desk. His laptop is closed. The light in the corner is still blinking and the desk lamp is on. There is still heat in his space; still life in his possessions, left for later but now abandoned. The half-drank can of soda, warm and flat on the table. The spoon that was sloppily tossed aside after yesterday’s lunch. I always hated that. The open notebook, partially scribbled in from a recent phone call. Those little things that make a death so very untidy and inconvenient. Subtle whispers by my non-existent god as he leans in, placing his firm hand on my shoulder and lovingly reminding me, “My dear child, you have made me up.”

Music makes me painfully better. Sad songs play through my headphones, filling my mind with dramatic cinema and briefly distracting me from cars driving by and dogs barking and people eating ice cream and kids saying the word ‘fuck.’ 

I get up from our bed. I walk over to the desk and turn the lamp off. I pick up the half-drank can of soda and empty it out in the kitchen sink, then toss it into garbage bin by the front door as I walk out of the room. The door slams and the sound of my footsteps can be heard, unpoetically stomping down the stairs and growing fainter until they are completely gone.