I picked up all your things and
I put them in a box.
I was going to send them back to you,
all those things you gave me
when you promised I was the only thing you needed.
And then I realized
I can't put every kiss in the box
or return every "I love you."
I can't return every time I held you
or unwrite every love letter I wrote you.
I can't undo every time I touched you
or unhear the way you said my name.
I can't send back every "You're beautiful"
because things will never be the same.
What am I going to do with all these things
if I can never pack them away?
YOU ARE READING
ρσємѕ
Poetrythis is the recipe of life said my mother as she held me in her arms as i wept think of those flowers you plant in the garden each year they will teach you that people too must wilt fall root rise in order to bloom - rupi kaur
