All the things you brought, but you never took. She still has your lighter, and she still has your book.

The smell of her perfume stuck to your pillow like a dry and worthless monument to your love.

She knows where to find you, and you know you know where to look.

There was that same knock on your door; soft and counted. How could you forget it? Same one that would come to your window too on those types of nights.

Dior was in your doorway —calm and solemn—, holding a shoe box with your name on it in sharpie with most of the things that you left when you two broke up. At least there's still proof of your existence...