This used to be my house. Not too long ago, but just enough to where it's at the point in my mind that I can't pinpoint when, exactly.
You sleep in my room. My old room. Your bed is in a different placement than mine was. I preferred to be beside the far wall, next to the closet, but I take it you fancy a window view. I can respect that. You've decorated it with posters and pictures and sticky-notes. Which is good, makes everything feel a touch more alive.
You're sleeping right now. You look peaceful, which is different than when you're awake, because then, you typically look sad.
You're breathing, softly, your nose whistling between the subtle rising and falling of your chest, and every few minutes your mouth twitches and you shift the duvet further up your shoulders. There's a radio on the sill above your head. Bathed in moonlight, the little black box plays tunes that I loved. The songs I listened to growing up. Sometimes, if I close my eyes and really focus, I can pretend that nothing's changed. I can pretend it's me laying on my back on the floor, the smooth carpet tickling my cheeks as I count the cracks in the ceiling, as you do sometimes when you're bored. They're still there, the cracks, but you've covered them with cheap, glowing, plastic stars. And paint. Which, in the afternoon sun is a golden yellow, but at night, under the moon's sallow eyes, is a muted green-grey.
The sheets rustle, and your breathing hitches. You're turning away from me.
Making my way closer to you, I reach a hand out and gently tuck your hair behind your ear. It's soft, and silky. You must take pretty good care of yourself, huh?
At least, that's what it must seem like to someone who doesn't know you like I do. And, not to toot my own horn or anything, but I think I know you pretty well by now.
I know that you love Johnny Depp movies, but can't stand Crybaby.
I know you only started listening to The Cure and The Smiths and others bands like that, because, ever since you were a child, you've wanted to fit in.
I remember those days, back when your family first moved in. Didn't like you very much then, but I'll admit, you've grown on me.
Your parents are snoring in the other room. It gets pretty loud some nights, but that's why you like to have the radio playing. It helps you to lose yourself to sleep, and not let distractions and noises and thoughts keep you up, right?
Because being awake makes you sad sometimes, right?
I get it. Truly, I do. I think we would've been really good friends, if I was still alive, that is.