the books never read,
all alone on a shelf.
your thoughts on my wall,
words i never could tell.
my bed was unmade,
while i enjoyed the floor,
all the love that you had,
muted knocks on my door.
every screen remained black,
like a story cut short,
scented shirts in my closet,
from a soul i adored.
every night spent in illness,
by the morning was cured.