by Daryl Muranaka
This tiny room, with its bare walls
alongside the low, slanted ceiling,
my few possessions crowded , piled
one on top of another,
is suddenly huge without you
lying on the bed as I come through the door
or your suitcase with clothes stacked neatly upon it.
The flowers I bought you are still in the vase.
The smell of your mother’s apartment fades
little by little, replaced by the summer sweat.