When I woke up, the first thing I saw was the yellow paint dripping down to the floor from the Van Gogh reproduction hanging on the wall, and I thought you were gone.
I turned off the alarm clock trying to silence the morn that so cruelly stabbed the room, but the silence was more violent and disturbing than before. That stupid sensation of being about to vomit your soul out and not doing so.
Looking for the trace of your footsteps melting on the carpet, I sank in the gaps left between each twirl of your lingering perfume, knowing myself to be out and away from everything, just in time to go through the memory of jello and get lost, completely disappearing from my own memory.