When you left, you took the life out of this house. You took all the plates your mother gave us at our wedding, the flashlight with a hand-crank that was so useful during power outages, and the books on psychology that weighted down our shelves.
After you left, I started eating off napkins at diner, and paper plates I found in the back of the cabinet; left overs from some party, I guess. The power went out, and the batteries in my flashlight were empty. You took all the candles, too. The holes between books now look like the picture of you that once hung above the piano: the one of you as a kid, before you got your braces. The little black spots between your teeth looked just as lonely.

I stepped in the shower this morning, and there by my curled, water-wrinkled toes was a long black hair. It was already halfway down the drain, rippling back and forth with the water current. It was stuck underneath the bathmat. I left it there, and watched it squirm. I scrunched my toes, working the life back into them.

When you left, you took the passion out of this life. You took all the smiles you brought to my lips, the laughter that once bubbled forth effortlessly, and the tenderness in my touch.
After you left, my lips petrified in a downwards curl, hard and immovable as stone. My chest fell and rose listlessly with my breathing; I broke a glass when I tried to pick it up. I guess I didn’t know how hard I was grabbing it.

Next to my blue disposable razor on the bathroom sink is a pink one, equally disposable in theory, but I found myself unable to throw it away. It just sat there, mocking me. The spot on my chin where I nicked myself shaving that morning smarted something awful.

When you left you took all the purpose out of these motions. No more reason to wake up in the morning, to cook eggs and eat healthy, to work hard and bring home the bacon.
After you left, I stopped setting the alarm clock; I got fired in a week. I gained fifteen pounds eating junkfood because it’s so much easier to prepare, and almost got evicted from my apartment. Your sister sent me a loan. I looked in a mirror one day, and didn’t recognize myself.

I passed a woman on the street today, she looked almost like you. Her hair was longer and messier than your immaculate ponytail, and her clothes looked like she had slept in them .She walked along with her head bowed and her eyes turned towards her feet. She reminded me of myself: she was lonely and broken. She reminded me of that picture of you as a kid, the one before you got your braces. We were the spots between your teeth, just as lonely, just as easily replaced.