Everyone leaves something behind. Most of the time its is a memory that plays over and over and over again in your head. Or maybe it's a scar, metal pressed against your wrist in the middle of the night while you watch everything turn red, his favourite colour. It could be shattered glass on the floor from that picture frame, that had been laying face down next to the bed for months until you finally broke down and threw it against the wall at 4am, waking the neighbours. Maybe it's a dead phone better because you spent the entire night reading through the old texts and hoping that your phone will ring and maybe this time, it'll be him. Maybe he'll come back. 

I am at your beck and call, all you have to do is tug lightly, I'll be back to you. If you let loose, I'll drift further.