Clear the house and find old poems —
the ones never meant to be read,
never meant to be heard.
But you tore through them
like you tore through my soul.
I cannot do it.
I cannot bear the thought
of you reading my mind,
of you reading my soul.
Let me erase your memory
so we can live on.
The flowers have finished drying.
Time is ticking.
And we can’t rewind.
It is out of my control.
You stare at me with silent eyes —
the kind that stay still when I reach.
Let me make contact,
just once.
I didn’t have much regard
for the little things
until you left —
the smell of your hair
on the pillow next to mine,
the way your fingers curled in sleep,
or how you always left the light on,
just in case.
I walk through rooms
where your absence hums
louder than my footsteps.
I try to trace the memory of your voice
against the silence.
And still —
I would give anything
to hear you say my name again,
not with anger,
not with regret,
but softly,
as if you had never left.
For you have haunted me in my dreams
and will forever be a part
I cannot retrieve.
I would give anything
to be the version of myself
you once reached for
in the dark.