After You Left

By: Benjamin Barrett

After you came to only say goodbye, you left

a single hair on the floor.

It’s been sitting there, by the front door

with the sunlight burning it through the peephole

until it eventually will be swept up

by the dustpan, and thrown into the garbage

to be tossed out back in that black wheeled can.

You also left behind your scent.

That lovely hint of the morning dew upon

some long-stemmed, black rose,

mixed with the slightest bit of vanilla

hidden deep within the layers of floral masks.

But it will soon be dissipated

by the dust in the air, made up of those

floating skin cells and microscopic bugs.

Yet what I held on to the longest

was the hug you left at the stairs,

right before you hurried your way out.

That and the smallest tear from your eye,

which long ago dried out on the hardwood floor.