I'm not moving a thing she touched. I almost don't bare looking at them. At the things she will take with her when she moves out, at the things that we got and did together, at the things that were mine but became ours.
I won't touch a thing in this apartment until it is covered by dust and cigarette smoke. I will drown this bed and couch in tears until I've run dry. I will deny the fact that I made her leave me, my woman, my cutest, my epitome of kindness, that I have lost her and that there is nothing else I can do to keep her in my life.
I will watch the dust bunnies grow in hope they have some of her hair in them, some of her skin particles, some of her breath. The shot glass will remain in the cupboard where she left it the night before she had to go so maybe her lips and fingerprints can be seen. The cupcakes will rot in the bookshelf to remind me how I turned a sweet thing to perish. I want her fragrance to stay so I have something to cuddle in my lonely nights but it's faint al