No Lovers Left Alive

Bodies, Bedrooms and Broken Things

When his world spun,
we stopped being lovers.
Our perfect Venn diagram shredded.

No more lazy afternoons
where he said: This is how the Earth was made.

I miss his spartan lair.
Shibari ropes.
Helmut Newton coffee table books.
The gecko jungle.
Rice cooker.
Skateboards sprawled across the floor.
His narrow hips.
His perfect face.

Best Westerns. Days Inns.
Bedspreads that screamed stay away.
Art screwed crooked on walls.
Hotel guests giving side-eye.

We were so clean.
Calcatta marble clean.

Today he said:
It’s been years since I’ve been myself.
Spinning at work until dizzy.
Always lurking.

No houseboat in Southeast Asia.

I’m not myself either.
Rubbing eyes raw,
picking at scabs from summer bug bites.

A long blonde hair caught under my left breast.
Mine.