we used to lay in the dark and talk shit:
family drama, some random highlight of the day,
or some new streak or habit you plan on starting.
you fall asleep abruptly, ignoring my continuous prompts.
sometimes mid-arguments so i just declare myself the winner.
you buy me things you buy for yourself (or something equivalent unless it’s from your own pocket),
we keep the universe 50-50 or 0-0 because that’s the contract we never signed,
like it’s our unspoken math, dude: split the pasta, split the guilt, split the last bite.
ordering food with you is holy.
it is two clocks finding the same minute.
no fight, no debate… just the quiet agreement of people who know what the other wants.
when i am furious you hug me like an apology wrapped in a comedy.
it hits me like a joke i’m not allowed to refuse.
and so i laugh and forgive.
i used to hate orange drinks. you loved them like religion.
now i drink orange and it tastes of fingerprints.
lemon tea is ours. it’s always a damn deal.
i haven’t made one since you left. i think it has no significance anymore.
but then there was the “bitter” part of our bittersweet bond.
i sometimes hate you for pointing out the small rotten bits of me,
for taking too long in the shower and for leaving the floor wet.
but it were the same constant digs that framed my unfolding, they still are, they always will.
and somehow as i grew older, the definition of home changed, it was no longer just a roof.
home is the way you shout my name when you call me.
home is the way you force me to clean your electronics.
you are the constant i folded my life around.
the constant, the constant, the constant, the constant, the constant, the constant.
you left an year and-a-more ago, my moronic calendar keeps tallying absence.
numbers are the new cruel language we share.
the house is architecturally identical to the one we built together with arguments over the remote,
but it is empty the way a song is empty without the chorus.
i pace the same five, six meters of my room like a train that thinks it’s still going somewhere.
outside this door there is nothing that requires me; outside this door there is no one to bother, no one to annoy, no one to blame for the missing chips.
you are still ridiculous and dorky and gloriously childish
and then, five minutes later, you’ll fold your hands like a bank manager and be suddenly sensible.
you’ve always had this duel personality.
rude a second.
kind the next.
dumb the next.
einstein the next.
conceited the next.
selfless the next.
loud the next.
silent the next.
angry the next.
laughing the next.
stubborn the next.
flexible the next.
i have spent years trying to pick which you i love most,
and then i realized… it’s all of you.
all of it, chaotic and jagged and perfect.
and i swore i would not miss the small things.
i lied. the small things are the first to gnaw at you.
affection disguised in insults. the eccentric hairstyles.
they are the skeleton of a life and the skeleton collapses when the soul goes missing.
i miss the small crimes most of all.
and the truth is, even with every small annoyance stacked in a neat pile like pancakes,
i would take the criticism, the stolen snacks, the constant bickering a thousand times over if it meant you would come back and sit beside me, sharing ice-creams.
sometimes grief is practical: the study room’s lights are never on.
sometimes grief is ridiculous: i miss your habit of subconsciously humming.
sometimes grief is animal: it claws at my chest when i’m trying to sleep.
sometimes grief is polite: i keep your toothbrush in the cup, untouched.
so call me sometimes.
tell me the world hasn’t gotten smaller without me in it.
argue about something stupid, i’ll still listen.
flaunt about anything, i’ll still listen.
make me laugh until i forget to be furious.
be ridiculous.
be wise.
just be there.
for i miss you the way a body misses a limb: absent and still causing pain.