Blank

This is a blank piece of paper.

This is what you left me with, when you decided that you had to go. Your jacket draped over the kitchen chair. A thousand photographs of you and me and us. A load of laundry, half finished. An empty house.

These are what you left me with.

You didn't take much, but the things you did take are the ones that haunt me. There is an empty space in the garage. A bare hook where your keys once hung. A lull in the conversation. An empty seat at the dinner table.

And the words that should fill this piece of paper: these are what you took from me when you left.

Because of you, this is a blank piece of paper.