His suitcase was worn as I remembered
And scuffed on its corners
Inside, I see what I have never known
His jacket smelled like music
And unfamiliar perfume
With a crumpled ticket in the pocket
And the last letter I wrote him
It is wine-stained but
Beneath the jacket, a journal
Its entries are
His words quiver and bleed
A pair of boots, laces tucked in
I rub the toes, which have walked
Ancient city streets
They should have gone
Hidden in the corner
Tucked under a knitted sock
A pearl earring, but
I don’t know
Spilled ink stained my fingers
And I wished I didn’t have
What I was looking through
Because they found his suitcase
But they never found

Post written by Anna Johnson

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