His Violet .

(a bunch of cliches that stares at me from my journal)

He will shift his place.
my sticky notes at his table will go .
the books I gifted would be at the back of his shelf .
My hyacinths at his window
will be her violets at his door
the side seat in his car will feel like her
He would crib about her dirty feet
and remember my sweaty palms
he will look at his clock and wonder
how time has flown past .
then he will think of me
and how we couldn't last .