The pairs of socks you bought for yourself,
I held in my hands, fresh, unused, stiff, packaged,
And I looked at them and held them close to me.
Tightly, as if they had been you, I thought I couldn’t let
Go, of them, of you, the socks that would have been worn
By you, your feet, walking, in them, and I took them, with
Me, after you were slid into tights for the rest of your life,
And I, put your socks on my feet, I continued a story.
There is a jacket that I took too. A jacket carrying
Your scent. With an inherent story, a footprint of
Your body onto texture, onto fabric, patterns and shapes.
The drug for grievers, noses in cloth, breathing in what
Is gone, too much, too intense, and everything could
Evaporate in a heartbeat, across my blood, liberated,
Within me, the invisible particles of you, decomposed.
I’ve looked at you from afar. I’ve spoken to you,
Maybe you had already been closer to me than I
Thought. I hurried to my bus station that night,
I bought a bucket of ice cream. I left it in the fridge.
Dug in around midnight. And I waited for you to join
Me. With a spoon in your hand. Ready to go. Like
You always did. You loved sweets. And you’d find me
When I had some and we’d be together. The ice cream
Melted, in the bucket, in my mouth, the spoon cold
And expectant, lonely, in the hollowing space, too immense
For one person, and I waited, as emptiness neared, all by myself.