Matching Furniture
The last night is always ceremonious
Although we never see it
Our bodies were much sleeker
Before we were allergic to one another
I could've sworn we were thinner too
We were matching
Now I am your bedside table
And I haven't bothered to fix the planks under my bed since you left in the morning
Grey Shower
Tonight I heard the metallic warbling
I thought I'd forgotten what it felt like
It waltzed towards me
Menacing, yet elegant
And stabbed me in the chest.
Something cold trickled down my arm
But when I turned on the lights there was no stain in the carpet.
I have a primal urge
To feel damp hair pressed against my collarbone
And your thin body
Trembling, yet mighty
Organic
Pale against the night sky
Gaunt against the shower curtain
Thrashing against my hipbone
Prediction
I predict letters in
jacket pockets
gone unnoticed
and tossed carelessly into the washing machine.
The soggy paper particles
will cling to our underwear
and remind us of
the stains
revealed, then quickly covered again
our eyes will dart away
and linger on
the blandest piece of home decor we can find.
I predict numbers on
cigarette papers
crumpled and
left to go mouldy in the bottom of my handbag.
The sight will disgust me
and remind me of
the time when
our faces crumpled and moistened in the same way
then I will smoke the paper
and the ink will blacken my lungs
just as they would have eventually been blackened, anyway
Mold
We grew inside one another like sweet-smelling mold that we probably should have cleaned up a while ago.
You liked deleting me as much as you loved me. So you did it over and over again.
Once, I remember you said you felt "obsolete" towards me. You knew exactly how relevant your every aspect was to the way I crumbled in the mirror.
Your name still echoes through the corridors I've walked down in the dreams I don't even remember
But I will never apologize for the arm you may have broken.
unspoken
It does not need to be said.
It builds up in the air between us
while we lie there unmoving;
it is thick and garish
custard with ants in it
ants barely alive
yet still in continuous and intricate motion.
It trickles down my neck a little
while my ear is tightly fastened to the phone;
and when I move it so forcefully
3 1/2 cups of brown rice fall on the carpet.
It does not need to be said.
The words we say are so often putrid
yet, the light always shines brightest
through the bathroom window.