Your ghost wanders around the house,
Your scent a faint memory
Of when you were here.
I don’t know if I could change it.
We are fired in a crucible,
And the hard matter is not easily remade.
Where you used to be?
I can. But that’s not enough.
Mere protestations are empty,
Those who do not know me.
Were you to read this, you’d nod your head,
Smile slightly, and put it away.
It is an irony that I who left
Now feel abandoned. That, too,
Is a particularity of the self.