Fragmented,
broken on the floor.
Memories, lists and dreams,
lost forever more.
Sunlight, through curtains, making rays.
My eyes swirl with the churning dust,
the musty homegrown haze.
The room is growing smaller.
The walls are closing in.
Our hearts are still on fire,
there burning in the bin.
We wrote our names in blood,
in sweat, across the wooden floor.
And then we tell each other
"I don't love you anymore."
How can we tell each other?
"I don't love you anymore."