your tan blotched carpet and empty painted ceiling, the way your pillow smelt like sultry before I lye in it and how you sang me to sleep before every day had its end. The tears are still fresh and wounds will not lie. The problem with knowing love exists, is knowing that not everyone finds it. I never thought it would be this hard, to see, to know, to realize that you aren’t here anymore. That you aren’t mine, that all the things between us, are no longer in that state. Your melodies will go to someone else, your heart belongs to her now. And no it, doesn’t hurt…if I keep my eyes closed.