One by one counting memories:
an old photograph of us at the beach,
a sweater that won’t rid itself of your scent,
books and CDs that you lent,
I’ve packed them away
They won’t see another day

I’ve packed the boxes, 
made the plans,
the rooms are empty
but I am motionless

Is it that familiar look?
Is it the morning glow
that paints itself through the window?
No, it’s the memories ...

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