This Is How You Will Miss Me

You will miss me in the mornings
when your bed is cold and empty.
You will miss me as the leaves change
and the swings rest still,
untouched.
You will miss me in the chipped
coffee mug, in the worn path
where my car used to park, in the blank faces,
empty beer cans, long nights waking to the sound
of someone else’s heavy breathing.
You will miss me in all forms. Quiet
and loud. When you’re in a crowd
of people, drunkenly singing
to a country song or alone in the shower
humming to a tune on shuffle
and the water hits
your skin, sends shivers
down the muscles in your back.
You will miss me when you least expect it.
In the softness of a blanket, at a stoplight,
in the lines of my handwriting
on a piece of paper you find at the bottom
of your drawer. And then you will remember
the sound of my voice, the warmth of my lips
on your skin, my hair mixed with yours,
my brown, brown eyes.
This is how you will miss me
and how you will remember me in all the ways
I will never remember myself.
Because I am no longer her
anymore.