I cut a negative hole from your earlobe
down to your shoulder blade,
and used the space to mask the personal void
between my separate ventricles,
pumping the breakup through, slowly,
in small doses.
The sculpted edges of your figure
kept close to my soft curves
holding together what you could salvage
from my tears and breathless begging
for a different set of circumstances,
but your bed

still smelled like sweat and *** from yesterday's,
I guess farewell, love making. And my baby blanket
covered your legs as I nuzzled into your bare chest,
drowning your pecks in sadness.
You kissed my nose twelve times, little nibbles,
like a button in a nursery rhyme,
lulling me into a coma of over thinking and restless
slumber.

I don't remember leaving in the morning,
but I remember ironing my collar, losing
the back of my earring in the carpet,
misplacing my books for my 9a.m.
I remember you holding my hand
under the table at breakfast while you dunked
pieces of hash brown into hot sauce
while I picked at the top of a blueberry muffin
barely able to say bless you,
God bless you when you sneezed.
But you carried me, my dishes I mean,
to the end of the line and you smiled
when we said goodbye.