The guy asks of I have proof
of my name change.
At this point,
I’ve been divorced twice as long
as my marriage lasted.
I remember the burning
need to toss everything away:
Pictures
My bed
Anything that held memories
I’m wished to exorcise.
And here I am,
fourteen years later,
looking for proof that
my marriage happened.
A reminder that things linger,
Like a shadow
on the edge of an old photo.
And you’re never truly done with anything.