All that is left
is an echoing in a vacant chest.
The silence of someone holding back.
A glowing, golden room
and softly strung strings
are not enough.
Your pretty words
and perfect apologies
are not enough.
A deserted, emptied bottle
once filled with stale fruit
waits on the counter.
You laugh at how it resembles our spirits.
I sit and smile
while the wax weeps in the corner.
My smile is fake.
So I run.