past tense

I’ve avoided looking around too much, I don’t really want to be curious. Don’t want to let my thoughts wander, don’t want to know too much about who you were.

I walk around your space and touch your things. I let my hands run over the sofa cover, the ones you changed when she left. I look at decorative items you’ve received from someone or another.

I let the water run for a while to get warm, soak the cloth, wipe down the oven and countertop. Open the fridge. I stare at the bottle of fish sauce, wondering if you’re adult enough to use it with purpose. Unlike me.

Your plants are all healthy, and I feel like that speaks volumes about you. And me.

I pick up the collection of water glasses and make your bed the way you usually do it.

I stop by your bookshelf, let my body collapse into the chair and run my fingers across the spines of your notebooks. I consider. Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. But it’s not about us. I don’t want to take it with me.

The air outside is fresh and new, and I breathe it in with greed.