A Vestige of Love Lost

I’m always hiding things.

In those moments I think –

I’ll remember where I put this.

But it’s not true. I forget.

I surprise myself

with unearthing things 

a three-year-old bottle of hoisin.


                                                   I knew I had some hoisin!


The lovely little bottle of patchouli

I swore to wear every day.

My gold hoop earrings

The prettiest pink lipstick—


                                                         Is it still good?


A vestige of V.

A note

Sour milk

I tossed it.


Being creative became a vise

that intensified us, me and V.


We hatched a plan to break up.

He would travel cross-country

on the train. After selling his studio,

He would leave L.A. and me.


The day I took him to the station

Relief waved over me.


A month hence—

My body ached for him

the worst I ever felt

over a man.

                                                   It was the treachery of my forties.


One day my artist friend

swung by, I asked him,

“When will I feel better?”

He said, “Throw out

every single thing you have of him.”


That meant the beautiful concentric circles

he drew on some weathered paper

with fox marks all over it.

That meant the teardrop sketch

of a house, he designed for his girlfriend

who died from a brain tumor.

That meant the pictures I took of him

the book he gave me on Japanese cooking

the wooden necklace in a wooden box

the notes he wrote me.


My mind ran like an album on replay

in a deep hole I thought I’d never get out of.

Then one day, I did.

I forgot about the love I had for him.

                                                                          I just forgot.



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