You said you like my shampoo,
but you love me more.
I didn’t shower for weeks, tucked my
***** limbs where they couldn’t be seen,
just to make you grin.

Your lips met my forehead,
tasted black waves, dyed to straw,
that stuck to your mouth in the wind.
I regret to admit
the hurricane soon fled.

I bathed today, in dish soap,
and focused on my feet,
then cut off the hair you kissed,
because it had grown too lengthy.
I waited as long as I could;
my eyes aren’t visible,
and I tripped over a rug this morning.

I’m bidding farewell to you –
the last trace of
your body on mine.
And I want to cry.