What Gets Kept

I opened it looking for ibuprofen.

Wrong cabinet. I knew right away—

theirs, not the guest shelf.

I stood there anyway.

Three prescription bottles, maybe four.

A razor with rust at the base.

A folded piece of paper on the middle shelf.

Not a receipt. Too placed.

A tube of something rolled tight to the end.

A comb with two teeth gone.

I knew in a second I shouldn't be looking.

I looked. Then moved on.

I know this person. Six, seven years.

Their couch. The year that was rough.

The year after that. I thought

I'd heard enough

to know the shape of someone.

And here was the shelf.

The paper. The rust. The bottles.

The part they keep to themself.

I found ibuprofen in my bag.

Went back. Got my coat. Said goodbye.

Walked home with the paper still in my head—

the fold of it. The size. Why

it was there and not somewhere else.

Not hidden. Just placed.

Six years, maybe seven.

The part of a person you don't get to face.