I am standing in the middle
of messy books with notes you took
and half filled bottles
of your favourite sin.
Spring cleaning won’t be easy
as I cannot say goodbye
to what has been your stuff.
To a future never gotten,
to what was us. What did remain.
You never finished Hemingway, I notice.
The bookmark’s sticking halfway in the book.
I try to read the story
from where you probably left off
and realize you’ll never know
what happened to the hero,
that you never read these words.
I read them now and try
to grasp their meaning, but in vain.
I shall never know the start.
You went away too soon for endings.
You went too soon to call it love.
I am standing in the middle of
left overs from a time, a photograph,
a dream or two, some messy books
with tears and stains once yours,
the farewell note you’ve written
and remaining memories of pain.
Spring cleaning might take ages,
the cobwebs, clutter and the dust in spite,
because I might find something
to justify your going,
to tell me why you did,
in notes you wrote on covers,
or in the choice of what you read.
You never finished Hemingway
but I shall now sustain.