last night
I accidentally used
the toothbrush you
accidentally left behind.
it did not taste of your taste,
your lips were not present
in the bristles, nor the sweetness
of your strawberry tongue.
in my hand, it felt
not at all like the small
of your back, nor the spine
that my fingers traced so long ago.
it was not soft as you are,
and its residue carried
not a hint of the autumn smell
you perpetually wear. your ghost

was not to be found. Not even
when I chanted your name to
the mirror, nor when I did the same
in my sleep. You had left me

a toothbrush. With which I was
to conjure you in your absence.
And I could not

even
do that.