I woke up in the middle of the night and you were not here. Your pillow was there, so were your slippers, and your cell phone charger was by the bed. It appeared tidy and lived in, but you were not there. I looked and I called but I didn't find you, I'm scared and I don't want to go back to bed. It's dark everywhere and you're missing; I miss you. In the morning I put out ads but no one had seen you. Time has passed, I've put away everything but I keep finding your stuff, like it grows from mine, like it sprouts everywhere. A few days ago I found one of your mom's tupperware's in somebody else's house. Some days I just find tiny stuff, like a whiff of your perfume trapped inside some drawer or stuff you wrote on my walls. You wrote all over my walls, did you know that? You wrote on the inside of walls I'd never shown anybody. But you didn't tear down any walls; neither did I. Now I'm trapped inside all of my walls and no one knows their way through this labyrinth, so no one is coming to rescue me. There are no helicopters in one's mind, no way to avoid finding one's way the hard way.