I always think I’m clean until I
look closer, put my glasses back on,
inspect my surroundings.
There’s love hiding between the cracks in the sidewalk,
and you can see it if you’re willing to look
close enough. Squat on the pale concrete.
Really get your face up close to it.
It’s there, I promise.

There’s love stuck under my fingernails
and I just can’t seem to scrub it out.
It’s between my toes, under my tongue, behind my ears.
I brush it out of my hair in the shower, but it always comes
back–like lice or a boomerang or the strep that keeps
invading my throat every few months.

I don’t think you’re there anymore, though.
I’ve emptied all my pockets, wrung out my freshly-washed
underwear, thrown away all my bras. You’re not in my shoes,
either, but I turn them upside down and shake sometimes
just to make sure.
Sometimes I wonder about the ratio of my lungs, how
much is water, blood, air, the sound of your voice,
or if it’s even there anymore.