I still find traces of you;
In my popcorn ceiling I see the outline of your torso,
Hollow.
You echoed when you would say my name
The lining of your lungs were padded with sticky notes,
Reminders of doctors appointments and birthday parties.
You would forget the simple things,
Not because you wanted to make room for the important ones
Like storing old photos in boxes,
Tucking them away on shelves to collect dust,
But because to you, simplicity wasn't worth a photo album.
The corners were tucked and folded,
Bent into paper swans.
And then thrown away in trash cans,
Recycled,
Into something more complex,
Like black matter and fairy dust.
I still find traces of you;
On doorknobs and coffee mugs,
And hollow things.