What I kept

Not the photographs.

I gave those back,

or left them in a drawer

somewhere between us.

Not the letters,

though I kept those longest.

Read them twice

on a Tuesday in October.

Then put them in the recycling

with the newspapers

and the bills

and the other things I'd read enough.

Not the books.

The books were always yours,

really.

I just borrowed them for a while.

Not the coat.

You came back for the coat.

That was fine.

I had been meaning to return it.

What I kept was smaller.

Harder to hold.

The way you said my name

in the morning, before you were quite awake.

When it was just the name.

Just the sound.

Without the history attached to it.

Without everything that came after.

I kept that.

I keep it still.

I take it out sometimes,

when I can't remember

what it was like

to be called that

by someone who meant it

without thinking.

Just a sound.

Two syllables

in the early morning

of some other year.

I keep that.

Not much.

Enough.