What She Left in the Apartment

A mug she claimed was hers.

A half-read novel face-down on the shelf

the way she always left them—

and I never said anything.

One sock.

The good umbrella,

which I think was mine to begin with,

but at this point

who's keeping score.

She left the Wi-Fi password

written in her handwriting

on a Post-it by the router.

I change the password eventually.

I keep the Post-it.

I don't know what I'm saving it for.

I don't throw it away.