flighty;

You were never built of that endearing material, I guess. Your eyes were never that bright, your laugh never that genuine, your words never that stirring. So it’s not much of a surprise anymore, when I find the spot in my heart where you used to live vacated and dusty. I hadn’t even known you had left.
So I sit on the worn loveseat we used to play cards over and I try to breathe in the scent of what your fleeting devotion was, in freshly baked brownies and early morning dew and intoxicating vanilla candles, but that scent is gone too, and all I can inhale is a stale, fermented taste of loneliness that stings at my eyes and buries me completely.
I stare for a moment at the clock at the wall, the one you kept forgetting to fix, the one whose hands still point at 3:25, and I think, even a broken clock is right twice a day.
I sigh, and I start to clear the coffee table of the magazines, the place of your memory, for the next person who will come here, and leave again.





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