i wake up and find
the remnants of you
everywhere, but you
aren't there. there's
a kleenex, a bottle
of perfume, a torn
stocking, your hair
brush and hair in
the sink, but you're
not there. you've
taken just about all
of your things, but
a few. your footprints
are still in
the carpet, wet
indents from the
shower. i can even
hear the door shut
behind you, and the
car start as you leave,
i go down the steps,
quickly with every intent
of stopping you, of
saying wait, but i don't
i go back into the
kitchen, unclothed, tired
from the fight, maybe
this is it. i see your
hand prints on the cool
stainless steel door
of the fridge. i take
a rag to wipe them
away, but i can't, i have
to leave them there.