Where Do the Lost Lovers Go?

The sheets are left tangled,

The pillows side by side,

The dents from ours heads remain,

Facing each other so close,

The blankets fall off one corner

That leads to a trail of clothes

Laying in the order they were removed.

The roses he bought sit silently

Dying in a vase.

The petals land on the table

As the thorns become bigger,

Much harder to miss underneath a

Wilting, weakening last goodbye-bouquet.

The drawer of his things remains

Three-quarters closed—

A heavy reminder of his smell,

A presence never to be discovered again.

So the drawer sinks into

The graying background.

His favorite mug to drink tea sits loudly

On the kitchen counter

With the tea bag hanging off

On the side of the handle.

You haven’t touched the teapot

Since the last time he did.

You haven’t sipped English breakfast tea

Since the last time he did.

The song he always sang to you

Follows you around.

It won’t let you forget him—

All the good memories come rushing back,

But suddenly get torn apart

By the bad.

And that song turns from golden to gray,

Never the same.

As I sit here, alone in the quiet,

I wonder to myself desperately,

Where do the lost lovers go?