You said, “that’s the last of it,”
as you gathered your things.
The parts of you I once shared
you held in a brown cardboard box.
Then you were gone.
But you were a master
of stamping yourself in many places,
on many things, a cardboard box couldn’t hold.
You stamped yourself on parts of me
that soap couldn’t wash away
though I scrubbed my hands and lips raw.
You stamped yourself on thoughts
that I couldn’t separate you from.
When I tried, you appeared in my dreams
You stamped yourself on my feelings,
such that I experienced you repeatedly
when I experienced anything at all.
You are not gone
because you are pressed all over me.
I was the only thing you left behind
that probably should have been
in your cardboard box.