You left me,
like the jews left their houses during World War II.
Hurried and rummaged.
Hickeys on my neck
Like a half-drunk cup of coffee left on their table.
My lips, bleeding,
Like their taps closed absent-mindedly
While their last shower.
My hair, messy,
Like their apartment floors in those last minutes.
My oversized t-shirt, wrinkled,
Like the bedroom linens the night they fled.
My eyes, crying aloud yet unexpressed,
Like their infants shushed
When they were woken up in the middle of the night.
My soul, longing,
Like the walls filled with memories framed,
only never to see them again.
My plea for affection, unanswered,
Like their telephones which kept ringing.
My body, utilitarian,
Which already served its purpose,
Just like their houses.
And I, now,
Empty, left behind.
Echoing words. 