"Everyone who enters a room takes something and leaves something behind."
I still have that piece of you somewhere.
A scribble in a book from a reseller's table, a cryptic note, a thin volume of Keats, a well worn quilt, memories of cold and dark.
I still have that piece of you somewhere.
The cloth that smells of you, scented with your cologne, the cologne I tried to buy later just to recall you and eventually abandoned, a clean handkerchief, memories of royal blue, a tartan.
I still have that piece of you somewhere.
Pressed leaves from a run near Sugarloaf, a silver bracelet from Peru, old letters in fine hand, a hastily penned note, the invitation to your wedding, an artist's sketch.
I still have that piece of you somewhere.
A photograph tucked away, taken when we thought no one was looking, a memory of a dance, an old postcard, a ticket stub.
I still have that piece of you somewhere.
Not a lock of your hair, a fallen tooth, a clipped fingernail. Not the sound of your voice, the touch of your hand, the feel of you behind me, next to me, alongside me, your breath at my back. The pieces now are hidden, scattered, covered by other pieces of a life.
I still have that piece of you somewhere.
It just might not be in my heart.
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Ted Frier
Cleverley
J. P. Major
ohsillyme
Lauren B. Davis
Rochelle Skaar
Salon.com
Comments
But your post is also about something else and you present it in such a way that opens the senses.
Thanks for this.