There is a particular kind of light on March mornings. Cold and white, marblesque, engendering a funerary glint to my room. I shiver despite heaps of blankets. A week ago, you might have been nestled beside me, but today your absence is just a reminder of something that was never there to begin with. On Saturday I washed my sheets, and now all the smells of your hair are gone.
i found this in another school cubicle. the next day it had been painted over
"the ones you love become ghosts inside you,
and like this you keep them alive”