You Left

This behind, roommate: an abandoned black knee-high sock


I tried it on.
It almost covered my right knee—you long-legged loon.
I laughed.
I frowned.
I saw the speckles of bleach: white in the middle
And red around the edges.


Like the cut I got that one time: my right knee
Scraped the shiny wood floor, but I kept the ball in-bounds
So you could hit that clutch three to win the game.
The bone was white before the blood.
Or the cut I got that other time: that little white lie you told.
It remained white for a time. Then the blood crept. And crept.
I damn near died from infection.


I peeled off the sock
And I put on my blue GAP hoodie and got ready to leave.
And then I remembered
I left my black GAP hoodie for you.
Many times, we used to wear the hoodies when we went out
Like fraternal twins.


Standalone, the letters G and A were nonsensical
Like a baby’s goo-goo, ga-ga.
But that P was embroidered over our hearts like a promise.
I checked your closet before I left for winter break.
The hanger was there
The hoodie was gone