I'm really going to miss  the way I used to feel at home in your room. The way there are little bits of you made me feel like I was inside your head. Your blinds made my eyes fuzzy and my vision swam over your skin and how I loved the way the light shadows danced on your wall. I remember the first time we were lying on your bed and kissed. I love waking up next to you, sitting on your chair with you, lying on your bed and watching you get dressed or sit in your chair, but I especially love your room when I'm in it and I know that even though you're not right there right now, I can be sure that you'll come back to me.

There is nothing more eye-opening in this world than lying in bed at 2 am with the windows wide open, 

and while the rain beats across your open window you lie your ear on your wrist; as you feel your eyes get heavier you notice it. 

The faint, then stronger, and insistent drumming of your pulse. 

Right now, you are alive, the rain will beat on for centuries to come. 

You, however, are a mere smudge, a short-lived speck in the vastness what we call forever. 

Your heart is beating now, 

and there isn't, 

there shouldn't be, 

anything more eye-opening than that.