there are still bits of
her about

a dress in the closet,
an apron in the kitchen,
notes she wrote me
posted on my desk,
a jar of letters,
a karma sutra book,
and not to mention
all the memories

can I exorcise that?
I can throw out the papers
and give back the clothes
but after living here for
so long:
can this place exist
without her?

I sit alone,
unsure of what to do
with these totems,
these idols to a false
god

thunder crackles outside
as it begins to rain