and the sky is all black and i think we should start running

She hadn't written a poem in some time, and one was teasing at the edges of her mind. Something about...loss, and..frustration, and...a confused sense of betrayal, maybe...that could never really be betrayal, because she was supposed to understand, right?



She didn't understand. She had great trouble understanding. But it proved impossible to articulate.



Still, the poem was teasing at her. Something about constructions that constrain. Something about chill constriction in the place of warm embrace. Something reflective of someone that can no longer be reflected.



Something about living in the bones of a dead love, being surrounded by that constant pain, unsure of whether staying was a better option (because even if painful, the emotions were true), than striking out and finding a new home (that would hold no memories, no personality, no...soul). A new home that would begin, and remain, empty and barren of all emotion and personality.



And then...the house was deleted. Not by her. She was more careful than she had ever been before with her own homes, because of the emotional weight of place. She checked and triple checked to ensure that every box she rezzed out was deleted, and only that box, not a stick, not a stitch, of the house surrounding.



But it was deleted nonetheless. It had disappeared into the ether where all dead things stay, never to return.



And now we are left with memories. And the shreds of what was. Is it better? Is it worse? I can't even tell.



All I know is, it's harder to breathe with the house gone, than with it existing.