Napkins.

She'd write poetry on napkins, while everyone was living life in the moment.
It was always easier for her head in the past; the place where he still lived.

In the land of blissful ignorance and aquamarine stares.
Back to the calm before the storm, a time when they both still believed in fairytales.

True loves kiss was never as sweet when laced with arsenic.
So she'd put on her favourite pair of rose-coloured glasses and go through the motions.

Thoughts of deserving the handsome husband, house and kids.
Even the white picket fence she once swore made her sick.

But the restaurant would be closing soon, and reality setting in.
She'd leave the napkin behind, with hidden hopes that one day he might just find it.