Early in the dark of morning,
I lay awake in a bed that isn’t mine.
Tangled in strange sheets,
That smell like our sex.
You surround me still
Your body’s heat lingers in the bed
Your touch still inside my skin.
I think of all the words I swallow.
Unwilling to quickly leave these spaces
I whisper them into the depression you left
Hot slick on my tongue
Words fall like droplets into the sheets I will never sleep on again.
This that is between us I can barely touch
Or shape in my hands
A thumb bruise colors my cheek.
Later, in the glaring bathroom mirror,
Travel soaps on the counter next to my lipstick
Soldiers in a line,
I tap concealer on my skin.
And once again become invisible.
Part of the rest of the world
Your memory sleeps in the bed.