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These halls are haunted by you.
I can hear the thud of your combat boots
as you'd walk to my room
and we'd play our music so loud
that the neighbors would complain.
I can hear your laugh as we would
joke and play Monopoly
and both go bankrupt
in a matter of minutes.
I can hear you striking the match
that you used to light the candle
which you held up to your face
and told ghost stories with.
I can hear the frying of pancakes
the so-called “gourmet” ones you'd
make by throwing anything into a pan
and watching it cook.
I can hear you brushing your hair
before you would put it up in your anime buns,
dying them to the color of your choice
depending on your mood.
I can hear the running water
which you washed your paintbrushes in,
watching the colors blend in the sink
before they disappeared forever.
I can hear your metaphors
“Life is just these paints,
swirling and blending
then parting and disappearing.”
I can hear the slam of the door
and the sound of your wave
and I can hear your silent good-bye
before you drove off forever.