All That is Left Behind

I am the softness of the pillow
that smells of him still,
the shy little whispers
that hide within the creases
of these sheets,

I am the tears that spill
hot and hurried,
to fall upon
a favoured shirt,
tightly balled
and cradled like so.

I dwell in the wishes
and the waiting
that haunt this room.
Oh, how sadly she waits,
longing for a message,
a ping or a text:

I'm no more welcome
than a stain on the curtain,
and just as stubborn
to get rid of.

I linger in the spaces between
what was and what is,
revel in all the maybes
and pointless what if's.

I am the memories
that circle repeatedly
like a faulty projector:
feverish and endless,
the long lonely nights
and fitful sleep,
the ache in her heart
the minute she wakes.

I was the spark that shone,
a magic that filled the room;
now I am nothing
but the ghost
of a love that's gone,
that walked away
and never looked back.

~ It’s been many years since I had my heart broke like this but what poet would I be if I didn’t write at least one poem of heartbreak? ~

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