When you walked out
of my heart, you left
the door wide open.
I poured my soul out
on a paper plane
and chucked it through the
fragile frame,
hoping you’d read the words:
“Please come home.”
I sat for weeks, waiting for you
to close the gaping hole
you carelessly left;
for you to walk through and
apologize for letting the bugs in, you hadn’t meant to, it was a mistake.
but you never did,
so I got up and closed
the damn door myself.
I washed the sheets four times (once
for every year you dreamt beside me)
before your smell
no longer lingered.
I deleted all of your
voice messages on my phone, but
they still replay
in my dreams some nights, and
I will always know your texts by heart.
I put all your clothes I gathered over the years, tangible
bits and pieces of you, into a garbage bag
and donated them, but
I still wake up on cold mornings wishing I had
that black jacket of yours.
I tore apart
every picture of us, and still
it took me too long to be able to
convince myself there was no missing
half in all those photos of just me.
I have flipped it so many times, and yet
I cannot get the imprint of
you out of my memory
foam mattress. The outline of your body
etched in chalk on a crime scene.
You wrapped your finger around the loose end
and pulled and pulled and pulled until
it broke;
an absentminded afterthought
hurriedly shoved into the armrest of my car
on your way out.
The hemmed end of your shirt left frayed and
blowing in the wind as
you walked away;
a sad reminder of how it used to be before
it’s innards were pulled out.
Weeks fall away and it still sits there—
the small ball of pink thread;
the mark of your territory on my heart.
The last piece of you. The only thing
holding us together.
Silenticel 