In your wake

Standard

Cigarette butts
in the garage
are among
souvenirs you left
a fear of love
songs holes in
the wall where
you hung your
art, speakers
and guitar
paint chips and picks
on the carpet
a warped window
screen where you
poked your head
out in the wee hours
for a few puffs
rust stains
on the patio
from your battered
chaise a bill
from the maids
who tried to
scrub your
memory from
my brain

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