It’s been ten years since you squeezed my hand and slipped through my fingers. The stains on your undershirt made constellations around the holes we both pretended not to notice. I bought a stamp to mark my books, but my library could never compare to your basement floor- piles of papers on every surface, a wicker basket of highlighters next to the tub. It’s been ten years, and I can still smell you in my hair. I close my eyes and I hear ice clicking in a glass of orange juice.
