The aftermath of your party is still on my floor. The spot where I finally kicked off my heels is covered by my skirt. I'm not sure why that matters - it's not like that evidence would be there for anyone to see but me. If you suddenly changed your mind about things and ended up in my room, it would disappear. I'd put it away like I do with all the things that are out of place, remnants of anything amiss in my life.
The boot that someone else pulled off.
The torn corner of a blue wrapper after a risqué comment about a shower was made.
A leaf that was given as a gift when it fell off a prop flower crown.
Somehow even though none of them have anything to do with you, you're the one I can't get out of my head. And then I see my heels and my skirt and wonder why I had to take them off myself.
I've gotten the fantasy into my brain that maybe you just don't remember how good we could be. So night after night I continue to convince myself that if I can just get the right snapchat pose that could hide the exhaustion from my face, and arch my back in just the right way, maybe you'll reconsider.
And then, finally, perhaps I can pick the party pieces off my floor.
