The Passed Note Issue 6 February 2018 - Page 36


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