cleaning house

if you come back,
you'll find
no diary on the desk,
yellowed but intact
with the post-it note
stuck on the edge
flagging your hurried goodbye.

i saw it last,
arc out of the window
after i had brushed
all your footprints
out of this house,
and sat down exhausted
at my writing table.

i also wiped away
your fingerprints
from coffee mugs,
and cookie jars,
from my books, my clothes,
and my hair.

i have learnt to play the radio,
loud enough
to chase the off key songs
you sang in the shower.

but every time i walk
in the rain,
your damned laugh
still rings in my ear,
and the smell of wet earth
mocks me again,
reminding me,
that i still have your tee shirt
hidden in the bottom
of the old camphor chest
we lugged uphill
on that rainy sunday morning
from the village flea market.