Dur

This is what is left:
The outline of what was your body
atop my duvet covers,
like depression;
Like the cousin of an apparition,
twice removed.
Your legs were here.
Your head was turned away from mine,
facing the window,
splayed open to shuttered store front churches.
What you left behind was scent.
What you kept behind was a pathetic negro spiritual that swung low like Scottsboro in the symphony of my chest.
We were only meant to last as long as decay and mourning would allow.
Like flowers,
mistaken for weeds,
Ripped from the roots and placed into a waterless vase.