Bank robbers couldn’t have slipped into the vault of my ribs as easily as you did.
To this day, I find traces of you that the crime scene investigators don’t know what to do with.
They tell me, put it in a ziplock bag with a tag, tell us where you found it, leave it in the evidence room.
But they never call me to tell me where you went that day, or what it was you took from me,
they can’t tell me where you are now, or what you look like, or what makes you laugh these days.
You left no traces and I have nothing but ghosts to keep behind the bars of my ribs
and at night all I can feel are the dust-covered prints you left all over me.