There was a comma between us, our names
on the contributor’s list in the book,
done so for alphabetical reasons,
(both our names starting with “I”) there we were,
only divided by interpunction.
Two years after our break up it was, when
in that bookshop, I bought an eraser.
While her eyes seemed to know what my plan was,
the assistant peeked over my shoulder.
The comma erased, we both took a look.
The result was a stain. I closed the book.