Your fingerprints in the crusted milk
On the kitchen counter are still there.
And your imprint in my sheets of silk
Reminds me of Sunday mornings.

Scattered coupons at the table’s end,
That we clipped last Tuesday night,
Will never be thought of again,
Except when I smell vanilla, your favorite.

Dirty dishes from Lasagna night,
Covered in grease, oil and sauce
Remain in the sink of porcelain white
And will never be fully cleaned.

Notes you left on my bathroom mirror
Still appear with my shower fog
To reveal messages never clearer,
And my fingers can’t wipe them away.

And I would give my life to take back
The cold winter drive on the farm road
In your father’s old red Cadillac,
Headlong into a bare, dead oak.

Because the mess you left in the garage is nothing compared
To the emptiness in the house that we once shared.