Remnants.
There are pieces of her,
here, there
remnants that linger,
that do not let me forget.
Her hairband on the dresser:
I now wear it around my wrist.
Her washcloth hanging
from the towel rack.
Her box of tissues
beside the pillow where she slept,
poorly (my fault),
always facing away from me.
Leftovers in the fridge:
today they are eaten, gone.
Ash dusting the hearth
after indoor picnics and bad movies.
A hairdryer sitting at the foot of my bed.
An empty ziplock bag at my closet door.
The aroma of the candle she left,
everywhere,
caressing me as I sleep.
Pieces of her —
they linger, stay
because I do not let them go.
I was too quick to let her go.
