An empty can stands alone on a cluttered shelf,
Its cold and hollow corpse reminds me of myself.
It is the only thing left that still has traces of your lips,
And its surface still holds the caress of your fingertips.

I forgot to remove it: it is part of the decor,
Like the oath that you swore:
"I love you," etched into the frame of my bed,
You forgot to scratch it out when you left, it can still be read.

What is gone is your pictures, I tore them from their frames.
Their glass bare, waiting to be filled by new flames,
But they won't be replaced.
There are fragments of you everywhere; they can't be erased.

Your touch is ingrained in every corner,
The memories are painful to me, the mourner.
Your laugh is absorbed in every wall and ceiling,
While the cracks that you left behind are slowly healing.