perhaps, you still left a scent in every little corners of my room, just like how you left your every touches in my skin that i know can still burn souls. you left me words that can describe a sunrise and a thunderstorm that can still be found inside my favourite journal of poems. you still left a mark at my tired bare feet that used to walk at the cosmos of your noncommittal romance, just like how your warmth remains at the end of my fingertips. you left me with this tongue that still holds all the syllables of your name and i can still hear myself uttering it for countless times.
perhaps, you still left a vision of you in everywhere i would gaze to, just like how you left me with a part of your soul that i found woven in mine; probably the reason why i do strange things that remind me of you and it suddenly becomes familiar. you left me with so much of you that i can’t help but to find myself tracing the lines of my palms to etch all the memories the moment we parted ways. perhaps, there’s every piece of you left in the insides of me: your delicate version, your happy little smiles, your sadness, and confusions. you left me pinned with your moving feet and i am certain that i can still hear your footsteps.
you still left every part of you in me. and in everywhere i’m in. perhaps, the reason why you’re still the one i consider home—
and you took my pieces in return.
— 02:30 l. sin, what’s left in us
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