Hang

It seems that there isn't much
of you here to hang on to.
my memories are all in the past,
your words are in my phone,
but not in my ear.
the tiny snowman you gave me,
200-some miles away on my bed -
no, not even on my bed, because
I had to wash all the sheets.
I don't know where it is.
Our emails are no longer
a place we share.
I am here, you are there
We are nowhere.
The moon hangs almost full.
You gave me this sliver of
silver in my nose,
but I can't hang on to that at all.
and my hair that you held
onto - I dyed you out of it.

~August 2010