your curly hair with the flat spot on the back of your head in
the morning when you roll out of my bed, comforter in a crumpled
pile off to the side.
baking cookies and never getting around to decorating them
they still tasted good and disappeared somehow
the sound of creaking stairs
a Beethoven concerto with a few missed notes
the stack of used tea bags is only half as tall
even though you never leave yours out
a pile of boots, a jacket, a square cut purse
all the little signs of you, gone,
missing you.
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