I don’t live here anymore.
The wooden box with the green velvet lining is empty –
I wonder what you’ll use it for,
whose trinkets you’ll someday store
in place of my costume jewelry.
I don’t live here anymore.
And the drum I bought you, though I was poor –
you never played it for me.
I wonder what you’ll use it for.
You’ll collect my hairs when you sweep the bedroom floor
and toss them, along with all our history.
I don’t live here anymore.
You’ll loan my makeup remover wipes to some drunk whore,
though you promised only I could go barefaced here.
I wonder what you’ll use her for.
You have no use for me anymore,
just for the right side of the bed’s vacancy.
I don’t live here anymore.
I wonder what you used me for.
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