She left her shoes, she took every little thing else, her toothbrush, her clothes, and even that stupid small silver vase on the table we kept candy in. Just dumped it out on the table and took the vase. The tiny apartment we shared seemed distinctive now, her stuff was gone, it wasn't considerably definitely, even though now the room seemed like a jigsaw puzzle having a couple of pieces missing, incomplete. The closet seemed empty too; most of it was her stuff anyway. But there they had been at the bottom, piled up like they often were, every single one of them. Why did she leave her shoes? She couldn't have forgotten them, I knew too well that she took fantastic pride in her shoe collection, but there they still had been, appropriate down to her favorite pair of sandals. They were black having a design etched into the wide band that stretched across the top of them, the soles scuffed and worn; a delicate imprint of where her toes rested was visible within the soft fabric.
It seemed funny to me, she walked out of my life with out her shoes, is that irony, or am I thinking of some thing else? In a way I was glad they were still here, she would need to come back for them, perfect? I mean how could she go on with the rest of her life without having her shoes? But she's not coming back, I know she isn't, she would rather walk barefoot over glass than need to see me again. But Christ she left all of her shoes! All of them, just about every sneaker, boot and sandal, just about every high heel and clog, each flip-flop. What do I do? Do I leave them here, or bag them up and throw them within the trash? Do I take a look at them each morning when I get dressed and wonder why she left them? She knew it, she knows what's she's performing. I can't throw them out for fear she may return for them someday. I cannot be rid of myself of her entirely with all her shoes still in my life, cannot dispose of them or the person that walked in them.
Her shoes, leaving a deep footprint on my heart, I can't sweep it away. All I can do is stare at them and wonder, stare at their laces and straps their buttons and tread. They still connect me to her though, in some distant bizarre way they do. I can keep in mind the very good times we had, what pair she was wearing at that moment in time. They're hers and no else's, she wore down the heels, and she scuffed their sides, it is her fragile footprint imbedded on the insole. I sit on the floor next to them and wonder how lots of locations had she gone whilst wearing these shoes, how several miles she walked in them, what pair was she wearing when she decided to leave me? I pick up a high heel she usually wore and absently smell it, it is not disgusting I believe, it's just the last tangible link I've to her. The last bit of reality I've of her. She left her shoes; she took every thing else, except her shoes. They remain at the bottom of my closet, a shrine to her memory.
It seemed funny to me, she walked out of my life with out her shoes, is that irony, or am I thinking of some thing else? In a way I was glad they were still here, she would need to come back for them, perfect? I mean how could she go on with the rest of her life without having her shoes? But she's not coming back, I know she isn't, she would rather walk barefoot over glass than need to see me again. But Christ she left all of her shoes! All of them, just about every sneaker, boot and sandal, just about every high heel and clog, each flip-flop. What do I do? Do I leave them here, or bag them up and throw them within the trash? Do I take a look at them each morning when I get dressed and wonder why she left them? She knew it, she knows what's she's performing. I can't throw them out for fear she may return for them someday. I cannot be rid of myself of her entirely with all her shoes still in my life, cannot dispose of them or the person that walked in them.
Her shoes, leaving a deep footprint on my heart, I can't sweep it away. All I can do is stare at them and wonder, stare at their laces and straps their buttons and tread. They still connect me to her though, in some distant bizarre way they do. I can keep in mind the very good times we had, what pair she was wearing at that moment in time. They're hers and no else's, she wore down the heels, and she scuffed their sides, it is her fragile footprint imbedded on the insole. I sit on the floor next to them and wonder how lots of locations had she gone whilst wearing these shoes, how several miles she walked in them, what pair was she wearing when she decided to leave me? I pick up a high heel she usually wore and absently smell it, it is not disgusting I believe, it's just the last tangible link I've to her. The last bit of reality I've of her. She left her shoes; she took every thing else, except her shoes. They remain at the bottom of my closet, a shrine to her memory.
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