Colin Dardis After You Go After you go, there is the romantic debris of dishes and tissues and empty CD cases, tomes torn from the bookshelf to confer with poems and the meaning of words in the best of good-natured debate, the mock arguments held with a smile. After you go, there are curled bed sheets to be straightened transforming this double bed into an oversized park bench for one; the residual warmth of hugs and pillows fading throughout the week until the next Friday arrives; leftovers to be enjoyed as singular micro-meals. After you go, there is the silence of the empty dwelling, the brick-held breath of one pausing to survey his solitude, and finding companion in memories and scattered mementos lying as a mosaic of our time.
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