What is the point of missing? Missing someone?
Why give so much attention to a void that could be filled otherwise? We often keep rooms, compartments, that grow out of other compartments, shrines, spaces we curate in the name of our affection, in our love for. for. for. for what at that moment seems irreplaceable.
Until it is indeed replaced, by death or any other sort of departure. The room, vacant; deserted, seems too cheesy for anyone else to live in. Too tacky, too saturated. Too personal. Until, the room crumbles, lifeless… Its colors turn pale, and then, only then does it become bearable for a new visitor to clean the walls, adapt the space, turn it into their palace. But how much of you has stayed a carcass in the process?