the room where I used to be

The bookshelf is gone.

I stand in the door.

The pale rectangle on the wall

marks what I had before—

the poster, the years,

the girl who lived here,

the one I used to be.

Around that pale mark

the paint has aged,

darkened like something

that's been holding its breath

while the rest of the room

moved on.

I remember.

I don't.

Both.

The floor is the same,

the window is the same,

but the room looks like a place

I only used to know,

a space that belonged

to someone I let go,

and now

that pale rectangle

is all that remains

to prove

I was ever here at all.