not the diamond

spoiled milk,
gone
south, yellowed
and slick in the plastic
jug.
not quite green,
or black
with mold, but working
on another life
form
captured within.
the eggs too,
hardened in their shells,
still cupped
in the cardboard
bed.
the bread, long gone
hard
though wrapped
tight with a twist.
so many other things
that she left
behind,
as reminders
of what happens
when love ends.
that gold ring on
the counter,
but not the diamond,
not everything gets
left behind.