What's Left in the Fabric

It's fainter now.

Three days ago when I first pulled the pillowcase off,

it was unmistakable,

the particular combination

of their shampoo and their skin,

the specific air

that only comes from someone

who slept in the same place

night after night.

Now it's almost gone.

It's more of a suggestion,

something I have to lean in for,

something I have to want to find

badly enough that I'm willing

to push my face into a pillowcase

like someone looking for proof

of a life that was just here.

In a week it will be completely gone.

The pillowcase will smell like laundry,

like the detergent I use,

like a clean thing,

like something that never held anyone.

I could wash it now.

I could make the smell go away faster,

could decide that the guest bed

is just a guest bed,

that the pillowcase is just fabric,

that there's no reason to keep holding

this small thing that smells like

someone who left.

Instead I'll fold it back on the bed,

and I'll leave the door open this time,

so the air can reach it,

so the smell can finish its work,

so I can watch it disappear

without having to do anything

but wait.