Is it the set of ceiling fans
The red paint on the south facing wall
The blue trim on the windows in the bedroom
The worn boards in the floor
The still crooked mirror on the wall
The butchers’ block
The violet
The Zulu
The Ficus
The Palm
The red door on my spice cupboard
The way the stove is not flush with the wall
The crumbling grout between the tiles
The rock between the perennial and the imprint of your boot
The letters written on the dirty window “uoy evol I”
Only visible for a few seconds on a certain kind of day
The cat that loves to jump on my shoulders
The view from the bed
The last garbage bag stored secretly underneath
The absence of your clothes in the closet
The missing items
The diminishing things
The remaining baking products
The cooking utensils
The coffee mugs
The magnets on the refrigerator
The bookends and the books between
The curtains…the end tables
That damned red chair
That green skirt
The compass you gave me so I could find my way back
To a pile of broken memories
And an otherwise empty room
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