in the sink
(i'll never wash it)
one coat
on the chair
(i'll never move it)
one brush
on the table
one sock
in the bathroom
one pen
in the potted plant
(don't ask)
no sound
from the kitchen
(where there was singing)
no light
in the sitting room
(where there was reading)
no smile
through the window
no laughter
on the phone
no dancing
in the living room
(i never asked her)
in my head
are the memories
of what's gone
in my house
are the memories
of what's left
an inventory
of what she was
reminding me
of who she was
and what
i should have been
before her life
left her
and the quiet
came for me
(still)
