There’s a part of my wallet that still holds onto your perfume from the night I fell in love with you. You broke it, I put the napkin on top. The next morning, with you still sleeping in my bed, I collected every part of that night I could, as if a part of me knew this was already over. The napkin to my wallet it went. It was two years ago, almost to the day, that you made my chest burn the way it still does, and always will.