while heartache has left me
it still lives in
the threads of your hair woven
into my carpet with the stain
from when you puked up
the alcohol
we bought together from
that bottle on the shelf we
had *** against and
then left the ****** in
the trash can
that still sits next to
my desk
where you taught me definitions
of words like 'wanderlust'
which still slip into my
small talk and
when i'm not careful
they come out sounding more
like heartache.