When you left, you left splinters of you in my heart.
And you left your things.
The terracotta pot from our first days in the sun sits on the low table you brought to our home. It casts a long shadow in this pale evening light.
Your linen shirt hangs alone on the rail, spice splashes on the snowy cuffs.
I keep your keys in my pocket.
I know you did not want to go. I know.
I envy the place where you have gone.