I could spend a lifetime building your archive, and still it would fit into a small box the way your ashes once did. Once you threw away your life, we threw away your things, not knowing that even the book of disguises might have told us something about the shape of your face. The gun, the shape of your hands. The gemology guide, something of your beliefs. Perhaps, inside it, you would have underlined the definition of allotrope: The capacity of the same element or compound to exist in two or more conditions with different properties. Carbon crystalizes into diamond in one system, graphite in another, and in its amorphous state: charcoal. The way love can crystalize into hate. The body into ash. The absent body into something I can feel with both my hands: this bronze baby shoe bearing your name.