We pack the boxes in silence,
each lost in our own thoughts,
as the clock sheds minutes
like petals from a dying rose.
You fold my sweater,
the one I wore the night we met,
lay it gently in with the others,
like you're putting a child to bed.
Your hand brushes mine,
and we stay like that,
barely touching,
but not letting go.
We'll be okay...right?
And you nod,
though we both know
how many minutes there are
in two years.
You kiss my forehead,
a gentle reminder
of our promise,
pressing a petal
back onto the rose—
refusing for just a moment
to let it fall.
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