Not A Day Goes By: A Poem

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.

close up of clothes hanging in store
Photo by Rene Asmussen on


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