Home > Life, poetry > I won’t look for it.

I won’t look for it.

I kept your tie, a ring, and a necklace.

I thought I’d wear the the ring and necklace myself,

but I never could put them on.

They were too much like you

and wouldn’t make any sense on me.

But the tie.

I wanted to do something with the tie.

I was going to make something out of it,

something handy,

something practical.

A wallet.

A coin purse.

A strap.

But I lost your tie.

It must have happened somewhere between all the moves,

down South,

up North,

to the suburbs,

to the city,

eight blocks west.

Your tie is gone.

I won’t look for it

in the boxes taped on the top shelf,

or at the bottom of the closet.

I won’t look for it

because I don’t need your tie

or your ring

or your necklace.

I know how to remember you now,

and I don’t need those things anymore.

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