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
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.