Just Checking

Whenever I recall a need to check you out,
I turn and shift my gaze in your direction,
a reflex you imprinted with every sound bite

from the pitch of your laughter,
the shuffling of your shoes on the carpet,
to the heavy thud of your bag on the desk.

How does one unlearn the associations,
flush out from consciousness the residue
of formerly familiar pleasures?

When will I stop checking you out
in spaces you quietly abandoned,
and accept the absence that settled there?