Caraphernelia \ka-rə-fə(r)-‘nēl-yə\ noun : a broken-heart disease that occurs whenever someone leaves you, but leaves all of their belongings behind
Beside what used to be your pillow, I wake.
Melancholy as I get out of bed.
Brushing teeth by the sink
With a jolt of sadness and dread;
your toothbrush on the brink.
Eating the pain for breakfast.
Then wishing the shower can
wash away the misery.
I look at the mirror hoping that again,
I could meet your lips so dreamy.
But seeing that photo near the corner
reminds me why I must not bother.
Driving to work with the thought of you
sitting on the passenger seat.
I put my phone on top of my table.
Longing for your voice so sweet,
Waiting for your message so playful.
Can you blame me if I can’t forget you?
Everything still lingers.
Everything reminds me.
I feel like I hold my heart in my fingers,
Shattered to the highest degree.
I even take the long way home
to forget the state of being alone.
So please come back;
Not for a brand new start.
But to keep our memories at bay;
to keep the pain, the pieces of my heart.
It used to beat for you, anyway.
(photo courtesy of pinterest)
P.S. This work also has a prose version I wrote not so long ago. If you want, you can check it out.