The scent of you on your pillowcase has gone
I am loath to wash it
just in case like you
it might return.
This place has too many memories.
I am trying to scrape them together
scrapbook them into some sort of tag eared worn diary
a calendar
prose
something, anything.
My mind will not still
will not focus
and will not remember
just the good times.
The tracing of your fingertips on my face
soft words of love spoken in passionate moments of bliss.
All I remember is the front door was in desperate need of a paint
and I only noticed as you left.
Divine utterings 