What remains,
are the coffee stains,
on the polished desk;
The ash,
from the cigarette,
that mark time;
When all the poems are written,
all tears depleted;
There are crumpled sheets,
unused yet,
for your scent,
still lingers on them;
that are forever leaving;
And me,
drawing circles on the floor.

© soulreserve 2015

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