In a few seconds, the scent of you will disappear. The warm sweetness of maple nectar, once a home for everything we were, will dissolve into the air, leaving the world a shade dimmer than how we found it. Quietly kneading time under the folds of the rug, while flesh bares the cost of growing older. I wonder how anyone can unstitch a soul from the fabric it has lived in. Tell me—what becomes of all these memories when the one who made them is gone, and we are left to pick up the pieces alone? -a piece of Me