I don't want you to become
another foreign thing in my
closet and inside
I ask myself what I expected
What I was hoping? Every
secret thought, I don't capture
them all.

And your memories: those I
deem property of Chris inside
my head, play on a spanish loop
with He Venido on low in the background.

I don't plan on getting rid of you.
Or forgetting you, or burying your
face behind stacks of books, The Count,
The Little Prince, A Clockwork Orange,
Things Fall Apart, and most of all the
Lemony Snicket hardcover that you
hid condoms in, the ones we never
used.

I have tried to document you because
I hope that it will help or that you will
see these things, but I have taken your
willpower for granted.  You perhaps
write nothing of me, maybe in a
diary maybe no where maybe
I am buried, maybe I am gone
maybe you have ripped out
my pages, my pictures, my
hair from thoughts no longer
strays on your bed, maybe you
have chosen to move on.

I don't want to end this poem.