it has been a few months since you left,
but this house still smells of you,
like cherry blossom in October.
this mattress that we used to sleep on,
still has that stain from when you spilled sangria.
my door handle still loose,
from the time you yanked it too hard,
to push me inside and devour my face,
with your fierce little tongue and your pretty mouth,
I still have scars from that night,
those scratches on my arms,
where you dug in your nails,
and that burn on my shoulder,
where you accidentally dropped the cigarette.
that picture on the wall,
the one with the two dancing naked women,
that I smashed when we fought,
for the last time.
these and many more broken things,
now lie beside my heart,
waiting for someone to pick up the pieces.