when all else is gone.

Your fingerprints on the refrigerator door,

I won’t clean so it doesn’t know you won’t return.

Your glasses, each lens scratched by the coarseness of your nail beneath cotton undershirts. 

I place them gently on the guide book you spent the evenings reading.

Circling cities around the world like we’d had time to go. 

I promised I would see at least one, but now I’ve seen four. 

Each knows I’m only there to keep my oath.

There are moments, though, when I see your eyes in blue stones near tulip fields 

or hear your voice in foreign words from fancy menus. 

I bring them home and, like your glasses,

they become part of the decor.