Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
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They have moved the table where we wasted every Thursday. The new chairs are yellow.
Your name remains in the group chat, a small green circle beside the last thing you said:
There was a version of me only you remembered: the red coat, the cheap apartment,
You died in March. By April, tulips opened as if the ground had not heard.
Your appointments remained: dentist, train, dinner with Sam, a haircut on Friday at four.
There's a word for the way your coffee cup still sits on the second shelf where no one else would put it—
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