the three of us

when she moved in

she brought with her, her clothes.
her shoes.

some bills, but that was
all she owned.

the rest was bought by her
married boyfriend, she being

the mistress for six years.

she carried in his piano,
a guitar, a box
full of rings,

bracelets, sliver, gold.
she carried in trunks of his
things

that she cherished, a hair
brush with his hair still in it.

books of his, letters and cards.
his shoes too, left
under her bed.

a couch, a chair, lamps
all paid in cash by her lover
from her recent past.

she kept a picture of him
in the dresser beside our bed.

her phone stayed cradled in
her hand,

never setting it down,
filled with more pictures,
filled with texts from him,

some new, some old.
the voice mail full, saved with
his messages to her,
from years gone by, and from
an hour ago,

and there she slept beside me.
while

I stared at the black ceiling
in my room. my life would never
be the same.

it couldn't end
too soon.