Morning

Back to seriosity. I write stuff. Rarely poetry, but this time I did.

WHAT HAPPENED

if I still had all the pictures on her wall
I could reassemble the order they hung
a collage of
what happened
in the hours she lay on her bed
staring, loving, reminding her self
she still exists
now, up in my closet somewhere
in decorated shoeboxes is
what happened

love notes, dead flowers and candy wrappers
junk that looks like trash
old bottles of perfume she stole from
her mother with one single
drop
left
at
the
Bottom

and I’d prefer not to think about her end or
the point that she left and I began, I
don’t remember when

even if I did
that last drop would never come out