My pockets are so full of your blue
it is seeping through the seams of my jeans
and running down my legs.
I need a mop.
You have made a mockery of rain gutters
staining the rafters, and dissolving sheetrock,
before heading out to become lost in the sea.
I want to grind the grime embedded under your nails
between my teeth.
I crave the taste of your clawing
and the collateral damage
of your escape.
Your adrenaline and rebellion.
Your hard work, poor hygiene
and the sweat and skin of women
you’d swear you never loved
as much as you loved me.
I swallowed the last eyelash
you left on my pillow,
that little piece of you went down
so easy, tasteless, and whole.
I can still feel it.