Abandoned Things

The memory of you is scum that clings
To what you left behind, abandoned things:
Your schmaltzy records of singers I abhor
Are piled like overdue bills by my door;
Your lotions clutter up my cabinet;
Your ‘favorites’ greet me on the internet;
And when I go out must I always see
A friend of yours who recognizes me
From some party you invited me to?
And, really, must they always ask about you?
Your name is like a bruise left on my arm
That always goes with me, a luckless charm.
These walls still hold the echo of your laugh
As if that shrill thing were our epitaph,
But it’s so faint I have to strain to hear it—
I have to strain so very hard to hear it.

Luke Stromberg

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