Jeans

Sneakers were left on the floor - silent witnesses to the departure. The air smells of someone else's perfume and unspoken words. It seems simple: someone packed up and left. But in this simplicity, there's a whole storm. Words get stuck in the hot air of Monterrey, and thoughts wander between shadows and things, as if hoping that an answer will suddenly emerge from under the pile of jeans and t-shirts: why do people leave traces at all if they never go back for them? It's warm, sad, and strangely cosy - like a morning after a sleepless night, when it feels like someone's playlist is still playing in your heart.