Saturday, March 5, 2011

Still

There is still a hair
In the sink where you washed
This morning

There is still a fingernail
On the floor from when you cut them
Yesterday

There is still the smell of spices
In the kitchen where you cooked
On Friday

There is still a breath
On my mirror where you sighed
A wet stain on my pillow where you cried
And a warm space on my carpet
Where your last footstep fell and died.

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