She left her earrings
on the sink.
Not forgotten.
Left.
Like a trap.
Like something venomous with no visible fangs.
Polite. Polished. Surgical.
I didn’t touch them.
I brushed beside them for 137 days.
Counting. Not healing.
Each morning,
two perfect metal loops stared up at me
like tiny nooses
for men who loved wrong.
They weren’t jewelry.
They were landmines.
Memories with sharp edges
that didn’t bleed —
just cut a little deeper every time
I pretended they weren’t there.
You know how stillness gets loud
after a certain kind of woman leaves?
That’s what they did.
They hummed.
At 3 AM.
They rattled slightly when the window was open
like they were whispering:
“She’s not coming back.”
Not because she didn’t love me.
But because she did —
just enough to ruin me.
I tried to fuck it out of my system.
Different bodies.
Different colognes on the pillow.
But no one wore earrings.
Not by accident.
Like their earlobes knew
this was haunted territory.
The sink cracked.
Not from use —
from weight.
Memory has mass.
Regret does, too.
A plumber came.
Unaware he was walking into a tomb.
He tossed them out
while whistling a happy song.
I didn’t stop him.
I just watched.
Like a man watching his last evidence
get erased
by someone who didn't know
how wars end.
He left.
The pipe stopped leaking.
But I didn’t.
Now the mirror is clean.
The sink works.
And no one asks questions.
Except the silence.
It still wants to know
why I never wore gloves
to handle what she left behind.
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