The reality I have to bear
is that there's nothing I can do
But keep to myself all affairs
and leave nothing more than a clue.
Like the dents above the pillows
where our heads once laid upon
And the tinge of my crimson lipstick
that pressed your lips at dawn.
Like the letters in the closet
that I gave on Christmas eve
Or that night when rain had caught us,
and I slept wearing your longsleeves.
Like the speakers you had purchased
for our movie marathons
Or the cup of coffee on the table
that helped me study all night long.
Like the post-its on my backdoor
that wished me luck for my exam
Or the wilted petals from a rose
you gave to me so I’d calm down.
I could name a few more moments
when forever was ours to keep
But these clues are none but rubbish
long buried with a painful heap.