Why can't you give me back to me? Like the necklace
or the house key
or the book for when I couldn't fall asleep
or the slippers for your cold wood floors
or the mug
and the box of mint tea and

(you did forget the tea. I imagine you
finding it
some months from now. A memory
that smells like longing and discomfort)

somewhere in your dresser drawers is my mouth
and the webbing between my fingers.

I inhabited every corner of your house, thinking
if you would find me anywhere, it would be
there

among the art that we bought and the
protest signs we made and the letters
and the postcards and the photos.