Your father was stubborn. And because you were strong-willed too, you refused to wear the vest of shock she gave you.
Its sight pinched you, drove pins into your skin till they grazed your aorta. You feared they would shred the muscles of your heart but you would not give up.
You told her. Again and again. She would smile. And walk. Away into the starry night. Hope for you was the setting sun, it had to rise in the morning. But for company at night, you drained your data on Instagram.
Nostalgia led your bytes to her page and you drowned in the forgetfulness that characterised it. Her hearty smile and your restrained cheer in a red shirt were gone, the one with your pimpled nose too. Vaporised!
You went to Twitter and checked her bio. It was there you realised the sun would rise at dawn but not with hope for your shredded heart.
The word ‘Lover’ was gone, space occupied its place, your subtle reference. You were now a vile history, an unholy anecdote, cleansed, and erased.