I think about the note you didn’t leave

and the colour ink you might have chosen.
I think about whether you would’ve dotted your i’s
or left them wondering who they are.
The neat, pre-packed boxes of your things scream
you would’ve folded the paper cleanly
down the middle, using a board marker thick
finger to keep it shut flush, no gaps to see through.
It’s impossible to walk past a dropped sticky note
or slice of notepad in the street covered
in desperate reminders for a living memory.
I collect lost shopping lists in supermarkets
and cobble together a basket of your final meal.

© Carl Burkitt 2022

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