Her poems littered your wall like trophies; I was close to being one but my words just couldn't contend with hers in those perfectly picked frames filled with the hollow strings of letters she likely lent to others before you.
Ghosts of feelings you clung to. Ghosts you ran from. Ghosts you worshiped.
I imagine your trophy wall is feeling pretty empty right now, and you probably don’t want to hang the words I have for you. But in the likelihood you are curious here’s just two: Your Loss.