I have a list that goes on for miles,
I made it the other day.
I wrote down all the things that remind me of you,
stuff I should probably throw away.
The good, the bad, and the ugly
I have to bid adieu.
But I really want to tear it up
and pretend this isn’t true.
It begins with the orange toothpaste,
something I used when
I stayed at your place.
I recall the mint flavor on your tongue,
but now that usually sweet taste
has left me bitter and stung.
Next is the bottle of ketchup I see,
sitting there in my fridge
obviously taunting me.
The brand is your last name,
number 57 was on your jersey
at every hockey game.
I’ll see it at the local grocery store,
but I don’t want it in my
The final item I cannot throw away,
impossible to do so
because I see it every day.
Yellow trucks roaming around,
and the second I see one
my walls begin to crumble down.
It might not be the yellow truck you drive,
but still I look and swerve
and barely survive.