I think I remember the way I undressed my bed
and the letter placed on a pillow with words that read
        "There was not a hand free when there should have been,
          only a small smile spread for too thin"
I stared and stared at the folded paper note,
reading your names over again as I slipped on my coat
I walked towards the window and the floorboards creaked
with every step they groaned goodbye and my knees fell weak
The window cold and fogged, felt like a memory
My forehead pressed against the glass, felt like a friend to me
The naked trees swing their skinny branches through grey skies
and patches of brown grass and a rotting fence apologize
My reflection older and defined, drained and I hardly recognize
I twist around abruptly when I hear a light tap on the door,
turn the **** to reveal a woman of barely twenty four
And I follow her eyes to the middle of the room and I see,
a little girl laying on a throw rug looking up at me
I heard my mothers voice but her words were muffled
The girl stared and said little, her movements were subtle
I took a step back and held on tight to my breath
When the girl got up and followed the woman out, nothing was left
Just me a bare floor an empty bed and my voice that echoes
"At what age did I begin to let go?"