The bags, which are too heavy for my eyes
A magnifying glass that caught your smile
A microphone that told the world of your laugh
A breeze that informed me that you wouldn’t be coming
A line that was too forward
That night a tree showed me that I wasn’t a very good dancer
The gentle breeze that provided the tree with encouragement
A floral scent that I could have sworn tasted like your neck
The book that told me that this was bound to happen
An air vent that thought it was Thom Yorke
My mattress that refuses to let go of your memory
The infomercial we made love to, (because you thought it would make a good line in a poem)
One of your cigarettes I finished, but never threw out
The burnt toast that made me proclaim my love for you
Your tiny toes that I needed to tickle in order to wake you on the weekends
The pillow you reacquainted my face with soon afterwards
The grey streak in my hair that you would groggily ask for the time
The rest of my life I’m willing to spend in order to figure out why your smile never explored the outer regions of the universe like mine did.
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