The moon.
The fallen leaves on iron steps,
slippery when wet.
Everything must go.
The heartache.
The home you worked
your ass-off for.
Everything must go.
The belonging.
The friendships you knew
would never end, but did.
Everything must go.
The Heath.
Crisp underfoot,
covered in snow.
Everything must go.
The dance.
In Wilmot Place,
in summer.
Everything must go.
The knowing.
All mornings will
begin like this.
Everything must go.
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