They leave behind their underwear. I’ve got yellows and waistbands. I’ve got stains and rips
They leave behind sores and un’apologized sexually transmitted diseases. Some let you know before entering; some feel the need to leave this on your skin like permanent shadows
They leave behind concert tickets and blown out eardrums and broken down umbrellas with detached wings and a shirt still stained with their overpriced scent
They leave behind recipes from family tree or internet databases and a tiny jar housing their favorite spice on your shelf and a jar of unmarked, unused ingredients from that time dinner was supposed to occur
They leave behind words promises lies secrets absolutions contemplations all that hair clogging drains and webbed in corner of bathroom and on pillowcase and remember that time you pulled their hair out of your your
They leave behind photographs and luggage tags and luggage and postcards and paintings and books and poems and poems and poems and poems and poems
They leave ghosts of rust on finger from that ring purchased alongside peaches or plums from New Jersey flea market
They leave behind that scar on your wrist from
They leave behind
They leave
Aimee Herman 