This spot. Once you stood on this very spot I am staring at. Your shoes. Those bow ribbons. I remember how much you like them.

This bar. Once I sat here with you, drowning in cigarettes and alcohol, our gazes distant as music awash the sensory.

That skirt. Once I realized how often you would wear a skirt like that. A skirt I love nothing more than to slip off of you.

This song. Of which I’ll always remember you by, to which the words painted our moment to perfection.

Those riffs. To which you associate so fondly the halcyon days you once lived. How your eyes would grow soft when the memories come flooding back. Your world. Yours only. I don’t think I can give you something like that.

These eyes. Fading. Dying. Looking, not watching. At everything. In the end, at nothing.

This heart. Tired. But still beating.

Still yours, and yours and yours and yours…