You count them as they move out of the door.
Her eyes, your heart, moist with regret, helplessness,
There are so many things we wished we could have done,
So many words we had wanted to say,
Too many what-ifs, could haves, should haves,
We count the boxes as the move out of the door.
Out of your life, but not out of your heart,
All that is left, is emptiness, where the boxes used to be.
Her life should not be just a number of boxes.
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