I remember calling her my home, the warmth of her body sheltered me from the storms made of crushed bones and childhood and orange bottles. I found her favorite handkerchief in my closet, the one she handed me so I could clean myself up after throwing up at the bar where we first met. Sure, it was an embarrassing first date. She brought a lighter all the time, but she never smoked. She loved to sing, Sinatra was her favorite. 

Her voice was a Valentine's Day card that played music of romance and celebration, of love and serendipity. She sang a love song like a siren from heaven's gate, calming the chaos of this world and turning it to a sanctuary. She turned my collapsed space into a host of a thousand roses. It was 5am when we kissed for the first time by the lake near my hometown. Believe me, that moment made me feel alive for the first time in God knows how long that I asked the sun to rise a bit later, so it wouldn't wake the universe, so it would be just the two of us.

I have memorized her last texts after reading them almost every night since July 24, 2017. I sit on the couch facing the door for more than five hours a day, waiting for her return after she left me sixty-five days ago. I had no idea that memories are old cemeteries and I am no caretaker, I don't know how to deal with dead things and mournings. I don't know how to unhear the songs with lyrics that remind me of her voice and Sinatra. I don't know how to tell my mother that I have lost a home without making her cry. 

What I know is that, for five and a half years, there were nights that we won and days that we have saved ourselves from ourselves. I know that my name is carved on her Ukulele and that I carved hers in my poems. What I know is that she couldn't sleep on the right side of the bed, I know that it scares her when the closets are open and the faucet makes an odd sound. 

Now, I have to shut my eyes without recalling the nicknames we gave to each pill we took, so our hearts wouldn't leave their cages, so we could sleep better. Diana. Marcus. Alexa. She held my hand tight that sleeping felt like wandering in a scented fog. Mera. Augustus. Lola. I remember calling her my home. Julia. Tony. The warmth of her body sheltered me from the storms made of my bones and childhood and orange bottles. Tina. I slept better when I was with her. Carlos. Sarah. Tim. I mean, everything about her is still here. Cassandra. Arnel. Monica. Except her. I'm out of her life. She haven't left mine.

— Of traffic and sleep

by Joms Zulueta Jimenez