firsts. the first date. the first kiss. the first i love you. then the lasts. the last kiss. the last night in bed together. the last load of laundry, separating his clothes from mine, the last folding of his clothes to go into the basket and then into the garbage bag and then onto the front porch so he can pick it up without having to make contact. the last full ashtray, his cigarette butts (camels) with my cigarette butts (marlboros). the last tube of toothpaste we both used, now in the garbage so i don't have to be reminded of the loss of him every time i brush my teeth. the sweatshirt of mine he wore -- i find it on the floor between the mattress and the headboard when enough time has passed that the very discovery of it takes my breath away. the last text message, now deleted so there's no beat skipping when i see his name in the inbox. the removal of his phone number from the top speed dial spot. washing the last glass he drank from. rinsing away the last stubble from the bathroom sink. the last beer. the last bottle of iced tea. i keep the roses in the vase, the roses he gave me on the day it all abruptly ended. these roses, still yawning wide in the morning, holding fiercely to their petals as if they know their significance. i keep the roses in the vase on the fireplace, where my eyes fall easily. a little bit of make believe that it's not over. that you're coming back. with each passing relationship i marvel at how little is left behind. less and less with each passing partner. like it never happened at all. i protect myself.