i still remember

(so maybe i’m a day late. also, this is an older poem, written many aprils ago.)

i still remember
the puff of cold air
on my bare stomach as i opened the door.

how i found you there
in my search for butter and jam,
i will never know.

your every nuance
is still recorded by this home
(though it is just a house now)
in every thing.

i still remember
sinking to the ground, sobbing,
as the refrigerated air seeped into the room
to fill the crevices you left.

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