This city has a bad habit of making time flies.
But now that you're not here,
days feel like weeks and weeks feel like months.
I tried to be busy.
I buried myself at work,
I begged my mind to not be idle.
I've changed the ceramics in my apartment.
I went to my mother's place for a week.
I've thrown every last bit of your cigarette butts in my ashtray.
But your memories still knocks on my door.