You’ve become these things
Scattered colorful reminders.
Brush strokes, glass jars, a chair that rocks.
All created by some other hand
Left in your hands
Left in my home.
These compounds of clutter.
I align the spectrum from blue to orange.
Away from collecting dust,
As we have.
We are the worn spaces
Sunk below the line
We are separated and cleared
And we are ultimately the same again.
We are hung up on walls and ignored.
We have our spectators but we are alone.
We are no one who sits in that chair.
These things now reside upon your departure.
I distribute my sadness into the materials.
I delegate them to hold it in so I don’t have to.
I tell myself, this is not you
But then again maybe I never really knew you.
Maybe all I ever knew were these things
color blind by the reminders
in their moments and over time.
Only now do I begin to see.
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