Nothing.

One day I’ll decompose from your consciousness;
One day you will stop looking around your apartment every morning,
Seeing my paintings in both rooms,
Thinking about how much I loved when you cooked biscuits and gravy for me.
You’ll stop hearing me laugh at your drunken snoring,
your mocking of stupid people.
You’ll stop seeing my naked face on your pillow
and my body between your sheets.
You’ll stop feeling the cactus prickle growing on my legs,
and the vibrations of my coo on your chest;
my kisses on your nose and lips.
One day You’ll forget about the hammock,
the sushi, the Melrose apartment,
HBO shows, and flying to Florida.
One day all I will become is hanging art pieces,
cards,
and 10 written truths in a dusty yellow mug.

 

 

 

 

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