I don't know why,
I keep them here.
The towels I used,
To clean up your blood.
They nest inside,
A memory box,
That's filled with,
More pleasant things.
But those gory blotches,
On those once-white towels,
Are a piece of you,
So I hold them.
Every once in a while,
I cry on them,
Like I cried on your shoulder,
As you told me to,
"Rise above."
I'll always wonder,
Why didn't you?