Am I still there, on the third floor?
Or am I nothing but a vestige;
An imprint on the bed sheets.
Have the roses withered away,
On the same street they had bloomed?
The voices of us talking must haunt
the oblivious residents of the house.
Shall I tell them what you did?
Have you a memory of what happened?
Or am I even a character
In the dreams you have at night.
Do you still smell the roses,
That I left you in your room?
The handprint you left on me
Has slowly washed away.
With forgiveness, I bathe clean.
Psalm 86:5 "You, Lord, are forgiving and good, abounding in love to all who call to you."
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