You left yourself here and there
throughout the house, small remains
where once all of you occupied space.
Our visit was strained. I comfort myself
for a time, cleaning around you.
I find dried nests of your hair,
thready webs stuck to shower tile,
a trait inherited from your father, like
your hair itself, a thick secret I never
understood. It smells of you, your shampoo
faintly clinging, but nothing lasts forever:
we are each an ebbing sea.
I wrap it in Kleenex and tuck it far back
in a drawer, a piece of you I save in case
you remember you once loved me.
