There is something to be said
for those plagued by memories, or memories
they wished they had.
I can still find
your starchy inscriptions in my notebook, your
vials of perfume in my defects, dabs of your lip gloss
on the rims of rinsed glasses.
I wish that they’d been there
And on the nights when it feels
like the windows are open, though
I know that they’re shut,
there you are.