Sitting down, I started to clear. Everything, every memory, every scrap paper, recorded, undeniably mine, with each sketch and each curly childish handwriting. Each paper I take out, it's your name written with fancy scribbles and love doodles. It's your face that sears across the crisp white paper, whether stained with coffee or pressed under layers of unwanted paper. Your image I've drawn to perfection, each with your hand in mine, your heart and mine intertwined. Why? Had I been so stupid to let you go? Yet everytime I remember how you touched, where you've touched me, I remember how foolish and childish I was to ever let you get such a domineering hold over me. I was in almost too deep to get out. But the air here is fresh, and now, it's tainted by the burnt smells of you, dog eared papers turning to black ashes.
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