Things that survived:
my high school prom tiara, your senior recital
sheet music. My drinking problem, your anger,
that ratty old blue tshirt you've worn for six years,
my cat. The Christmas lights we hung
in our second winter together, your college
finance textbook. The box of mint tea
I never finished, your mouthpiece but not
the euphonium. The desk I repainted sloppily
on the deck of our first house, the dig
you left in its soft wood when you slammed down
the bottle of cheap red. My little black dress,
your old headphones with the worn cord.
My self-righteousness, your hatred,
my regret, your face.