This is what you get.
This is the regret love gives you. This is the hollow night.
These are the tired fingers, the weary eyes, and the sadnesses too deep to bleed.
This is what you get when you give up everything else.
These are the silver memories lightning shivered on the empty walls of your bedroom.
This is the sound of your breath, alone.
These are the old photographs, the ones you don't want anymore, the ones you still hold onto.
This is the shirt she left, and it still smells like her.
These are the songs you listened to with her, and these are the things she gave you.
This is the book you read by her side.
These are the sheets in which you'd shared her darkness, her laughter, her dreams.
Here are the kisses and whispers and fears and the peace.
And here are the days since then, now lost in the rain and the distance and the others who you acted with, skipping to the love scene.
Here are all the lies she told, and here are all of yours.
This is the last place you imagined for yourself when you looked in her eyes.
This is the love poem you'd written to her, when it was too late.