Remember Me.

I come up to meet you, tell you I’m sorry.

                                Tell you I need you,

                                Tell you I love you.

But it’s too late.  You’re gone, you’ve left and you took all our furniture, too.

It’s empty.  Our house, was once our home.  We bought it with the little money we had saved working over the last three summers.  You had said it was a fixer-upper, you fixed and I upper-ed (the decorations, that is).  It was beautiful, with rose engraved wallpaper, and smooth oak floors you spent days re-furbishing.

Remember those long nights when we would stay up, lying on the worn-out quilt I made you in the tenth grade, just talking.  And laughing, and cuddling, and kissing.  Your kisses were sweet.  You said I made them that way.  You said a lot of things.

Remember those mornings, when I would wake up to the beeping from the coffee maker?  You had snuck out of bed, so careful not to wake me.  But you would always forget to turn off the coffee.  You forgot a lot of things.

Remember when we would be eating dinner, and you would sweep me up right out of my chair and carry me upstairs, saying you would do the dishes for me later.  And you would lay me down, and kiss me, and tell me I was your one and only.  But in the morning you left the dishes.  You left a lot of things. 

But not today.  Today you took it all.

We had been fighting a lot lately, the years had worn us and our spark was fading slowly.  But you, YOU were my one and only. 

So I walked into our empty house, our pictures were still hanging on the walls, but the paper had withered away.  All that was left in the center of the floor was your quilt.  My quilt.  The quilt I had made you when I was 15. 

And it was then that I knew, I was no longer yours, and you were no longer mine.

And just like our house, I was empty.