By Chad Hollis
Nothing except the pictures of her
underdeveloped
outside the post office
a gap in her teeth the size of two teeth
space where there was no space
Nothing except the clothes I forgot to pack
the books I forgot to write
the silence in the morning
space where there was no space
Nothing except this ticket stub
for one soft red leather suitcase
a belt strapped around its middle
like an aging parent
Nothing except the note she left me
that says goodbye – – goodbye
The crying – – the leaving
always somebody leaving
always the wrong somebody
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