in the morning, my eyes will be tired and droop like my shoulders from the blue-ish escape of my screen. in the morning, my elbows will ache from my propped chin as i listened to the light soar of your lips and the quick flight of your fingers.

in the night, i will do the exact same, and although my fingers will shake on the curve of the mug's handle, i will do it all again.

my hair is rolling down my shoulders in heavy droplets from the condensation of my own thoughts, and i am thinking of you.

my eyes droop against the knowledge of what i've done, what we've done and sometimes, i weep into a crisp clean pillowcase that if i close my eyes, can imagine smells like you.

my pillow never did smell of you, my windows never had the pleasure of gazing upon your face but my detergent does not smell like you. my clothes do not smell like your laughter, my skin of your words, the doorknob of your insecurities and the ceiling of mine.

the fan overhead that creaks with long strokes of a tired sigh, of a job half done and abandoned, becomes the very thing i once loved. with each turn it's a catalyst and i stare, long and hard, into a night that swallows me like the venom we spat at each other and the rattle of the doorframe of my heart as you left.

i fix the window, the glass shards cutting my shaking hands into pieces unable to mend my own heart and i stand by the door, by the window, by my phone that sits quietly on the table you once sat it.

maybe it's wishful thinking but i wonder if, however many miles away you are, whatever life you're living, the painting of me still hangs from your ribs like yours does in mine.

because there's only one mona lisa, and it's not you.