i have a few pieces of paper,
stamped and sent,
signed with mutual
contempt
stuck in a drawer, somewhere.
there is proof,
a cracked cup
or dish, a bent fork or spoon.
there are clues
that you were here, that it
wasn't just
a bad dream,
a nightmare. an apparition
that went boo.
look, there's
a strand of hair,
a cut nail,
a tube of lipstick,
a card or letter,
a crumpled photograph
with the face scratched out,
remnants
of the ghost of you.
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