Trinkets,
And traces remain;
A mark that you left on the table downstairs,
A stray hairs, a bracelet,
A stain.
Like an artefact meant for some museum scene,
The bed's been
Perfectly preserved,
I’ve not had the nerve to disturb the old sheets,
That clung
To your skin and its curves.
Bottles of hair products, two pairs of stockings,
An oversized
Pink hooded top,
A fist full of letters all shredded and torn,
And a handful of
Bloody old cloths.
