the remains of us collect dust
on the kitchen counter
and i have stacked our memories
in bookshelves, tucked away,
dog-earing my favourite pages
and scribbling out the tragic chapters
you know the ones.
How like me
to hide away nostalgia
but refuse to dispose of it
Sentimentality, i always joked,
would be the ruin of us
and how like you
to prove me wrong
and leaving,
just as the story
was getting good