Still Life 7/7/20 | A Poem

Your abandoned bed, unmade, my head, in the pillows,

The scent that was still alive, the furniture untouched,

Everything in its place, plants, books, blanket, I may drown,

The language of this room speaks of life and death,

Love and memories, where you live from now on,

I opened the window to let you back in, did you ever leave?

I emptied that room, invaded your privacy, held you in the pieces

That I could touch, I still have my senses, and they hurt.

Fragments of who you were I distributed, packed up,

Against my chest, in my face, never letting go, emptied of you,

I am wearing you, I walk in you, I smell like you,

I know you that well, I used the rest of your lotion,

The rest of your hair gel, your socks on my feet,

Your rucksack on my back, you could be found in every single object

You left behind. The places you loved. The almonds and brazil nuts

In your drawer. The chamomile tea. Things that you ordered

That were still on their way. Shower gels that we fought about when I was there.

The bedding in a vacuum bag, containing your scent.

I washed your clothes so often because I wear them all the time

And they still smell like you, and we embrace one another

In a way that wasn’t possible before.

You walked out of that room and never came back.

Unmade bed. I sat in an abyss of detriment, withdrawal and speechlessness.

Photo by Evie Shaffer on

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s