Your Old Things, Take Them

I’ve got your stuff all pressed and boxed up,

the dust collected atop and all.

I don’t want this

any of it

your old t shirts


glass water bottles


our journal lined with bleeding hearts


these mixed CDs I’ve made for you

all 9.

I don’t want these butterflies that won’t seem to die

despite having no nectar to sip


your copper coated eyes melting effortlessly into mine of emeralds


the constant playback of our memories swimming around my mind like the rowboat inked on my skin.

but I do want my heart back

and I am afraid you are still holding it,

tighter than you did before,

trying to make hers reflect back it’s watercolor mirrors and echo it’s acoustic baseline.


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