"Yours?"

I put in my headphones
and listen to these leftover whispers on repeat
as they drone in my head violently,
they speak to me so softly.

There's so many, like bees buzzing around
and I laugh and cry and push rewind
and pump the volume louder as they fade,
I don't want them to go away.

Not yet, not yet, my precious dears,
these little voices that echo my words,
mocking the ones I spoke to you,
torturing me with the ones you told me.

And some don't make sense anymore,
our inside jokes that lost their bottom line
sound like a foreign language I once knew,
too long ago to put the pieces together.

The chorus is coming up,
the sounds of sweet piano
and the noise of a broken accordion,
hideous and haunting, resembles
the echoes of the wails that

my heart cried out to you once.
But this is quickly replaced by
the dripdripdrip of sorrow
which once echoed off the walls of doubt.

And then the silence comes,
the break in the whispers on record,
and only one question speaks out;

I was yours, right?