The bed squishes and creaks under the weight
you didn’t add- the one missing
thing missing everywhere in this house. No pictures,
no smells of unknown leftovers, no socks lying in the middle of the floor
or behind the dryer. I only have the last memory of you- the last action
before you ducked into the car, toted away from me
forever.
I’ll never lay an eye on you, or a hand, and neither
you will me. My house is missing a piece of you,
but I’ll always carry the remnant of you in my scar
on my side. The scalpel wound, where I was sliced open to be given
your kidney and lay in wait for the day the scar tissue will close up
and melt away, and become itself again.
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