Since
I haven’t washed the sheets
since he left two months ago.
The silence blooms here
pressing its tongue into
the corners of the room—
coating the walls in a sour film,
the dust clings to it. The hum
of it multiplying. I have lost
track of the time-
line of stains. Which are his
beer, my blood, us
wiped from the hands of the other.
The days spilling over
my hips, the moon
outside dissolving—
into a silver eyelash. I move
the sheets up to my chin.
I sleep better knowing
things have happened
since.