You left, taking away the blue toothbrush in our cup, the white T-shirt in the closet, and the frog alarm clock that always wakes me up first every day.
The note on the refrigerator says these are the only things you have here. You said maybe you once had me.
You put the key under Gugu's food box and left cleanly.
You threw away your phone, and I found it in the wastebasket in the study.
I curled up in bed for 24 hours without falling asleep. I tried hard to remember your smile, but I couldn't remember the intoxicating raised corners of your mouth.
I don't even know what you looked like the last time I saw you.
The fragmentary picture in my mind is only a blurry shadow.