I see the frame that holds your picture.
A frame from you desk, that you chose, that you looked at.
It felt the warm of your fingers
as you brushed it searching, or dusting.
That your eyes lingered on in it in a moment of repose.
The frame is there, holding a picture.
The shorts your bought me lay in my drawer.
They are ragged and ripped no longer fitting my grown legs.
But they are there, pushed to the back.
You bought them thinking of me. Remembered me. Out of love
And I remember you.
Your rings and jewelry were sold,
given away to women wanting to cling to you.
To wear you near their hearts and on their hands.
I have an old locket you wore. Not a favorite.
Not gold or silver. Tin for all I know.
But you did wear it once. It touched your skin like it touches mine.
I keep it in a box. A white box. Put away and protected.
These things are nothing. They hold no love, no life, no memories.
I can’t lay my finger on why I hold them I just do.
I lay them out and look at the objects of your life.
So small. So simple. So everyday.
They don’t hold me. Don’t love me.
But I carry them around. From home to home,
country to country,
it all comes with me.