Eleven Numbers

I haven't washed the scarf you touched,

the one with white and light green on that January night.

It's been a while.

It's lying on the shelf

among my messy stuff.

You told me, on our last night

in that dark room:

"Nice paintings, there on the wall."

I looked at the colorful shapes,

then saw your smiling face.

Together,

we were alive.

You forgot your coaster,

and I hid my pastel box.

For months and months,

I stared at the colors in the box.

I never thought it would be this hard

to come back better.

I lost my appetite

as I swallowed my words

so as not to cause harm.

Then

I sold the dress I bought.

The one you liked to touch.

I wrote a hundred messages

to say goodbye just once.

Yet I still know those eleven numbers by heart.

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