Purple drapes move gently in the wind, as she closed that box, and said good bye to the many memoirs left behind.
And crying is the just the spontaneous fit of pain she feels, for it follows her to her every where abouts.
Although this is the end, its is far from over, chapters always overlap, she believes.
A quick change of scenery, she begs... And so she runs with only the wind and all her spirit, and lays in the same spot they laied that first night.
But now, its not him.
It's someone else.
And it isn't love.
But so true, and so strong, she dare not put a cliche label on it.

Clean linen dried in the wind has nothing on this.