I found a book under your pillow,
A few days after you died,
And now I sit under the willow,
Observing the tears on the pages that have dried.
The paper was brittle,
The cover worn,
The words were so little,
I was surprised it hadn't torn.
You would quote these words,
Countless of times a day,
And even named your bird,
Nick Carraway.
This was the greatest way of mourning,
Over you and all you are,
You never even gave me a warning,
That you were leaving to go somewhere so far.
I remember this being your favorite story,
The one with Gatsby and Daisy,
You said it held so much glory,
That is made your eyes slightly hazy.
I would laugh and say,
"Your so cliché!"
Well, guess what I am doing today?
I am reading the book under your pillow and tracing your tears with my own.
