I burn her things, man

I've never seen a bathroom
so perfectly empty
before

literally just the toilet
a sink
and a shower-head. No tub
or cabin. Nothing

And a dark brown
irregular circle
captured the eye
from the very core of the room,
on the blue tiles

"That's where I burn
her things," he said

"What things?"

"You wanna see?"

"Nah, I'd rather just listen
to you talk about it."

"I burn her things, man.
Been doing so ever since she left
for the final time.
Every night I sit right there
on the toilet
and drink
and drink
and place a dress or some
stockings or
shoes, panties, whatever's
left in her wardrobe
over there on the ground
and set it on fire.
And watch it burn. And drink.
The window's open. Smoke goes
out
along with all my thoughts
of her.
When things refuse to catch fire
I pour some of her perfume
on them.
It feels good to smell it burning."

"Who was she
really?" I asked. "Wife? Girlfriend?"

"Muse," he said. "When she was
around I could do
my work. But now... all I do is
drink all day and burn her
things and watch them in the
flames. The rest of the time
I just sleep."

I found out later
that he
was talking about his
daughter

She was alive
and fine

living somewhere with
a boyfriend

She even visited from time to
time but
he could no longer see her
as a muse. Only as
a distant friend

Also the clothes he
burned
weren't even hers

he bought them himself
to feed the
delusion

and the delusion
grew too large
and eventually ate him

Many thanks to LatinosUSA —English edition for featuring my poem, "I burn her things, man"!

Check it out HERE!

Thank you!