Raki Kopernik: Things You Left

Fall '12 TOC

 

A white long john shirt between the blankets. I smell it in the morning.
 
A green toothbrush in a plastic baggy in my scrap paper drawer. Used only twice. I threw it away when we broke up for two weeks. When we got back together I apologized.
 
Black 'O' rings on top of the boom box, under the bed, on the coffee table next to the cactus, and one on my guitar amp. They're too big on my fingers but fit yours perfectly. I stack them into a pile and leave them on the nightstand.
 
A pair of gray underwear also found between the blankets. Size medium boys. I washed those. They're folded with my underwear in the dresser.
 
A crisp white T-shirt. Black ski gloves. A black bowler hat hung on the Manzanita branch beside the couch.
 
A thick silver ring with an intricate design all the way around. I put a thin strip of black electrical tape around its base so I could wear it. I will never give it back.
 
A nail clipper, found in the dryer after I washed your cat sprayed clothes, left on the chrome table.
 
Red and white tulips in a mason jar used as vase, the edges of their petals brown and curled.
 
Your travel safe-sex kit consisting of a plastic zip lock bag full of black, purple, and white latex gloves and few small packets of lube.
 
A switchblade on the passenger seat of my car. I said I'd keep it for you while you were gone because they'd likely take it away.
 
A few unmarked pills in the console between the front seats of the car. I threw them away, along with the gum wrappers and pocket lint.
 
One dirty gym sock. A syringe, unused. A food stamps card, empty.
 
The memory of a raised pea shaped bruise in the crack of your left arm.
 
A yellow hickie on my chest between my tits.
 
A wad of chewed gum on the windowsill beside the bed, found the first morning you were gone.
 
Not Enough Night
Not Enough Night
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