My earlobes are mourning the loss of the earrings.
The earrings lay abandoned on the shelf,
watching me while I get dressed.
I brush them while I take the bottle of perfume.
I doubt, but I refuse to wear them again.
Not anymore.
But my earlobes are not ready for any other pair.
My heart is in pain, but you still hover inside, reckless, caged, uncertain of staying or leaving.
Every morning is the same.
When I look in the mirror something's missing,
but if they hang from my earlobes, still you're missing.
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