Fifty seven minutes ago I burnt your picture.
That was fifty-six minutes nine seconds before I started writing this
Sixty four minutes from when I realized I had lost all peace
And I hate repeating myself; but what is this?
How was that; who dares to speak?
My fingers are typing while my mind says ‘hold your piece’
Forty-four minutes ago I hurt those fingers
I hurt them because I was burning your letters
Your cards; all those little pink flowers
All the sparkles and confetti showers
But could not burn the memory of reading them hour after hour
I burnt my sheets two minutes after that
Because I wanted to get rid of your perfume
My sister looked at me and laughed; I looked at her and fumed,
Then asked for vinegar with which to scrub my room
Thirty-nine minutes; thirty nine minutes of hearing you speak,
Two hours of seeing your fingerprints on my walls
Your scent is driving me crazy; I want to run,
But no matter where I go you always seem to come
Twenty-one minutes ago I burnt those shirts;
The green one and the yellow; and also the vest
Then fifteen minutes ago I wanted to rest,
But went and got a Calypso bottle first
My room looks like a war zone; smoking and bereft
Scattered; looking lonely like graves of green berets
The walls are clean though; sparkling and new,
Seems like I burned the last thing I could find of you.
I just wish I could burn my heart…