How long do you wait
to wash the dish and fork
they used for that last piece of cake?
What about their towel,
their pillowcase?
Does cleaning these things
wash away the proof
that they existed here —
that they shared this space with you?
What do you do
when their song comes on?
Let it play,
or skip it?
How long until your seat on the couch
stops feeling wider,
stops reminding you
that something is missing?
How long does it take
to fill the empty space on the nightstand
and not have it look out of place?
When do you stop checking
the weather forecast,
searching for the next cool day
to plan the next outdoor date?
When will days of the week
feel like days of the week again,
now that your routines
no longer exist?
Is it embarrassingly sentimental
to regret removing
their favorite color of nail polish?
Should you have let your nails grow out,
let them carry the color longer,
instead of staring at the bareness
that mirrors the emptiness inside you?
Is it wrong to hold back
from wearing your favorite scent
because it reminds you
of the intimate moments shared in bed?
Do you cling to it,
or surrender it,
and choose something new?
How long is it
until you find something
to ground yourself
like their hugs did?
Is it wrong to not want to know
the answers to these questions,
so you can hold on to them
for as long as you can?
Sincerely,
Vera Lynn
By Vera Lynn 
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