Poetry will be forgotten on the bookshelf
Paintings will eventually blend in the wall
A long novel can rest under our pillow
But where do I go?
Flowers will always get thrown away
Chocolates turn into empty wrappers
Songs get put back in the cd case
But I have no place.
Necklaces are unclasped and hidden
Expensive perfumes are washed off
Letters are folded and stuffed in a drawer
But nothing stops the slow-moving hour.
If thoughts live deep inside of you
And still can make you smile
Then maybe a treasured memory
Is the point of my last mile.
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