Still Filled

Two in the morning. Bad sleep.

Cabinet open, looking for ibuprofen.

Behind the cortisone, behind

my vitamins—her name.

Pharmacy label. White. The kind

that peels at the corners but holds.

Expiration: March. Eight months gone.

Pills still full. She never finished them.

I stood there longer than made sense.

Held the bottle like a fact

I wasn't ready to argue with.

Put it back. It fit

right where it was. Between my things.

Staying the way she didn't.