It’s not the sketch that adorns my mirror
Or the music CD that you got me
It’s not the blonde tumble weeds that go rolling by my toes
Or the toothbrush that you left behind
It’s not your scent upon my pillow
Or the black lingerie that you forgot to pack
It’s not the paintings that you bought me
Or even the pictures of our time together that remind me of you
It’s this linger void that seems to have no immediate cure...
© José V. Guerra Awe
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