As I look around me,
everything is you.

The childish paintings on my wall,
and half of the t-shirts in my drawer.
One of the pillows on my bed,
and the bracelet on my wrist.
The gifts I got you for our anniversary,
never to be opened or cherished by you.
Your birthday in my calendar,
and your words in my head.
Every **** picture and video on my camera roll,
and even my underwear,
whose patterns match those of yours.

I'm surrounded by you still,
and it makes this utterly impossible.