It made scallops on my shirt, dried like salt in seashells — the final appearance of our love. I could have mourned it as if it were more than the possibility of life disguised by a million tadpoles. A whole
day, it took him to get home it may be even more miles than my body fluids travel in a week. His, still on my shirt. Hits my knees
(always the knees, have built oceans on them)
He thinks he left, but it was I who cleaned sand castles from all my crevices
he thinks he left, he the snail I have caught up in years of needing to be ******.
He thought he left, but white beaches are still in my dresser — it is what remains. I am so tempted to say, "your *** outlived you" but it would not be the first time his **** did the work for him.