There is a glass bottle full of thunderstorms
sitting on my dresser. It kept me
smiling through the bite marks and hid
the smoke from the cigarettes
from the people I was trying to protect.
But now I will leave the half an inch of rain
sitting at the bottom.
I'm not sure I want to smell like storms anymore.
I wear a braided ring around my finger.
Once, you tried to hide it in my hair,
but my hair is mane of a lion, quick to consume the beautiful.
It stays on my finger instead, but
I think I might try to find another band
of silver,
with less memories attached.
A riding crop of black
and red sits, conspicuous, on a suitcase.
It traveled with me when you could not.
It touched my skin more recently than your hands, and I
must admit,
I resent it for that.
I gave your empty journal to my brother
and started a new one instead.
It has no black feathers in the pages.
The cover does not bear the pawprints of your dog.
There is no smudge of mint ice cream on the pages,
no memory of bacon brunches caught
somewhere inside the binding.
I'm not sure I can say the same
for myself.
