Your clothes on my floor,

your hair on my pillow.

Your face in my picture frames

watches me break down

over the things I kept hidden.

Messages on my voicemail

say you don’t love me

and you’re sorry

but I know that in my bathroom,

there are two toothbrushes

for two lovers too different

to see that love is a forest fire

and we are the little things
that live in the trees.