I stopped inhaling your kind words long ago. Those spoken, written in gifted books or greeting cards. But every very so often the evidence resurfaces. Now numb to their loving messages. Once beautiful, to merely black ink incisions on cream colored parchment leaving only indentations. Scars, really. As though written in a foreign language, this script was given to another who no longer exists. Erased, by the violent sweep of your lacerating tongue.
I’ve scrubbed clean most traces of you. Sometimes wearing the bestowed jewels, loosing the elaborate story of your generosity when admired. A quick “thanks” replaced that illusion.