My bookshelves still remember you.
They are full of sketchbooks that forgot you broke my heart.
They wear your name proudly across pages trying to capture your smile between its covers.
I don't have the heart to tell them.

I don't want to tell them that those eyes can't tell what I'm thinking without saying a word.
That those hands can't guide me through forests and cities, through anxiety and depression.
That those arms are not home.
That I cannot hear his laugh with those lips.

And until your smile is no longer synonymous with the first letter of "lost" and the first three of "over",
your name will be the only word in my vocabulary
because I don't need anything else.

If only I could draw on a smile,
maybe my sketchbooks would think
I'm happy now too.