Now that you’re gone, I sleep
in the middle of the bed, my head
swallowed by the crease
where the pillows meet. I eat
the whole dessert, or none at all,
ignore the buy-one-get-one-free
deal on Publix ice cream when I go
to pick up dinner for one.

Now that you’re gone, I use your soap
in the shower. I have long since run out
of my own shampoo and conditioner,
the rose-scented body wash I never
bothered to replace. My razor slides
through your shaving cream, scraping
the stubble that has sprouted
since we last slept in my double bed.

Now that you’re gone, I paint
my toenails Chapel of Love pink,
the color of the bows on the girl’s
dress, of the petals she drops over the white
canvas. If I had been the ringbearer, and you
had been the flower girl, you say in a tone
so low I have to watch
your lips move to make out
the words, I would have just given you
the ring instead.

Rochelle Germond is currently pursuing her MFA in Poetry at North Carolina State University in Raleigh. Her work has appeared in The Battered Suitcase, Third Wednesday, Emerge, and Torrid. Originally from Florida, she most misses palm trees and lizards, though she is enjoying the fireflies and seasons of her new home.