Weeks after you’re gone,
I still see your dialog
in my apartment.
Your sentences cover my
walls and furniture,
like cobwebs.
That sentence you said –
I did something sexual! –
clings to the ceiling,
not far from the water sprinkler.
Another sentence –
I could have met a much
better man than you! –

sits on my sofa, smoking
foreign cigarettes and drinking
a whole bottle of wine,
just like you used to do.
You didn’t leave a lot of clothes,
but left a closet full of punctuation:
I found one of your exclamation
marks under my bed the other day,
and this morning I found
a few of your commas in my underwear,
just like I used to find strands
of your hair in there
when I went to piss.
When I try to sleep,
the lines of your pillow talk
prance around my bed,
transforming from
typography back into memories
right before I turn on the light.
The air in my tiny apartment
is crammed with your sentences,
I can hardly take a step
without bonking my head
on your chitchat.
The other day I even
thought of charging them rent!