It was 1998, dead and alone,
spontaneous combustion at twenty.
As if everything slowed to a slight crawl,
and every song on the radio sucked.
My eyes drooped laggardly in there sockets,
though my wanton hair still grew wildly.
I kept this box of his toe nails under,
the grid of the radiator, hiding,
as a reminder of the love once met.
A broken heart is the deadliest of hearts.
Remnants of himself for me to find,
numbed love turned to this animosity.
I place his hardened nails against my skin,
to remember the betrayl of mind.