a final memorial to the tired heart.
the weary, out-of-breath soul.
a final memorial to the love that is real but needs to be put to rest.
resting underneath floral sheets is the sweetness of you.
the image that is left, at least.
nestled under the cold blanket of winter impending is the grandeur of our erasure.
and every time i get ready to incinerate the loving bones of what we were, you remind me of timelines and ties and i regret letting go.
when i am ready to tuck you away on a shelf in my closet, you blow the dust off empty promises and i pick you up again.
the toy that is played with another day.
and for once, you are not the toy in the situation, but instead, the greedy grasp of a spoiled child with too many choices for play.
and too often, i find i am the last to be picked.