Sometimes, she would leave about strands of her hair red green over the floor, rolling in circles, to some mild invisible breeze. Playing tiny games till long after she's gone. Would have her earrings removed and slid underneath the pillow case, because they were too dangling to be worn around at home. And this, I would discover weeks later. One by one, many of her hair-clutches would disappear and stock up at my house. And by each day, her hair would hence grow, wild and untamed. Her head too. Corners of my room would not smell of her perfume or of her sweat. But of something else, those drops of secret vapor that leaked out the pores of her skin, and hung lose in the air, stood caged, for she kept my windows always shut. Her brassiere slung quietly beside my shirts, like she owned this place. The misplaced knife in the kitchen, the saucers out of place. And she never tightened the faucet enough and that dripped all night, not letting me sleep. Obsessing about her being in my house, livin-in, despite her having moved out days ago, weeks ago, months ago.
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Before this: here
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