Plenty Rooms With Walls

There are plenty of rooms in my house, so many that I got exhausted counting after too many lost keys.
There would be days, where I would hear the doors tap, windows crack wild open, and every time I hear something, it makes my heart skip beat fast. 
Days where lights would turn on and off continuously like you are reminding me that you are here somehow, between the wind that are haunted in the house. 
Every time I go to the bath tub to wash away the memories that live in my skin, I can see you, standing in front of the mirror that you bought, for our anniversary and for that I dont dare to throw it and hide it in the basement. There are days where I look for you in your office, whenever I open the drawer and see your pills, I relive it a lot, the time where you had a panic attack, the time when you were diagnosed and our lifestyles changed into opposite of happiness, the times when the walls in the house felt every time you tore a part from the pain that lived within you.
Whenever I look at the wallpapers in the house, I feel like they are coming together so tight, so close that I cannot breathe, not anymore, it keep on reminding me of everything, when you had your last panic attack, and I couldn't be here, these wallpaper witnessed your soul demanding help, they have witnessed your pain coming out from your chest. They witnessed when your body slowly hit the floor after too many shots of tequila, when your body closed over itself, and I wasn't there to comfort you.
Ever since, I have been fallen, and drown, drown and fallen, it never ends, its consuming me in itself, and sometimes I am everything, everything and nothing, by myself in weakness.
Sometimes, when people come for a visit, I still call your name asking you to come down " Friends are here" Knowing they would whisper, reach to my shoulders ask me for some tea.
There are days, where I would sit looking at the photographs that are hanging on the walls, days where I would love to break the walls and escape in them. Disappear
It is lonely, living between the rooms, listening to your footsteps tapping from your office, dancing on Jazz music nights while sipping whiskey with two ice and a slice of lemon.
There are days, when I wake up frighten in the middle of night looking for your touches on my hand, sometimes seeing you from a very far angle coming home after work and meetings.
There are days, when I even try to forget that I live in the cemetery and you live between the walls with our kids. There are days, when I forget that I am dead and you are alive. By Sally Bani Hani