When you left, it wasn't like they said
The sky didn't fall and break into
little pieces
The rain didn't shed tears that tripped
down the window panes and the night
wasn't like a suffocating blanket
that prodded
at the inner recesses of my soul
When you left, it was like a small splinter in my finger
The chipped wood lodged in the smooth underside of a nail
Nagging, but silent and still, easily
forgettable
Only a slight change in the natural order
of life
An inconsequential detail of the way things used to be
Like a small rip in a fresh set of jeans
frayed and ridged
But here I am now, in this new white house with these soft, expensive sheets
And these cold antique marble stairs
Everything gleaming, shining, and costly
Yet the only thing I see when I look in this sheen mirror
Is a splinter in my finger and a pair of jeans with a slit
Right down the middle