a poem a day for a year #333

by Amy Turn Sharp


I left a part of me inside of your apartment, just a tiny part, like an eyelash.
But I miss that part. When did we last listen to the "So" Album and look at strings of Christmas lights?
Somewhere in a journal in a box beneath the staircase is written the history of us. I don't read it anymore.
I've memorized it. I give myself gold stars when I can recite it without sighs.