Before long we'll never be in that room again. We'll never fill its space with our sighs. We'll never fog up its windows with our heat. We'll never lie on its floor, limbs and fingers and mouths and even our eyelashes folded into one another, gripping softly but for dear life.
Before long we'll never splash that room's walls with our laughter. You'll never prop yourself up on the arm of that couch against that wall and say, "Come sit on me." You'll never play for me from exactly that spot. Our silly songs and sillier jokes won't exist in that place.
Before long that room won't hear my wails as you hold me tight enough to press into my bones your promises. We'll never cup each others chins there, eyes little trembling pools, heads shaking no, no, I couldn't without you. We'll never cross off ideas for future children's names up those two flights of stairs and down the hall.
Pretty soon I won't place my hand on that closet door for support. Pretty soon any moans within that room will belong to someone else. Before long we won't slow dance to the sunrise breaking into its panes.
In no time our mornings will come much earlier.