I Remember You

The orange beaded bracelet on your left wrist. Visible dust on my dresser as the curtains opened. Three boxes stacked in a corner with the initials LW.

You fell asleep after I finished inside you. Your stomach growled and became an alarm. I sliced a nectarine and put it in a foggy plastic container I was going to throw out. Juices slid down your chin.

You recited poetry in our language, but I couldn’t understand. The inflections in your voice taught me the beauty of not knowing.

You were happy but not filled. We shared ice cream with the vintage spoon my deceased mother gave me. You dipped it in chocolate. I dipped it in cookies and cream. Both melted and became soup.

You said you felt my pain. I watched your bright canvas become dreary. I didn’t ask and only covered us with a blanket.

The sun hid, and you were gone. I absorbed the scent of your botanical shampoo. Dried stains on my sheets. Light scratches along my back.

My crinkled shirt missed your skin and slept on the carpet. I watched …