Your toothbrush, of course. And
your wallet. Your ticket. Your favorite
book. A snack and the cord for your phone.
The voice of the man you love. This
you can not take with you, so you
must win some of his words from the air
and put them under your tongue
so that all day long you can taste
not only the delicate pear in the adjectives
he chooses, but also the warm buttered toast
of his nouns, the golden broth of his verbs,
and the sweet wine he makes of your name every
time he says it. If you’re lucky,
you remember to take the full moon
that you saw as it fell from the sky this morning.
Bring your loss, the vacant space on your shoulders
where his hands would be. Bring a few minutes
to mourn. And for when the night is a little too silent,
bring the spaces between his words.
Curl into the nothing. Imagine how
it will be waiting for you when you return.