honey, i'm home


I wear sneakers inside the house because I haven't swept the floor
in weeks. It is better this way, keeping the shelves undusted and
letting the dishes pile up in the kitchen sink, every spaghetti sauce
stain and lipstick-marked rim a love note from that time we feasted
in the middle of a raging storm, the wind howling outside my window
as persistent and as sure as the way you lifted your glass to my lips.
It is better this way, my dirty throw pillows and sheets that still smell
like your sweat insurance against me inviting sad, strange men in
after lonely drunken nights at our favorite pub. Somewhere in the
garbage bin there are strands split from your sentences, crumpled
receipts with your signature on them, an empty pack of cigarettes,
your crooked fading grin. I need to wait until I am ready to take
them out. Your blue toothbrush is still in the bathroom, hanging,
your fingerprints on the edge of my bedside table, your sleep-soaked
breath still humming through the air conditioning vents, steady, 
steady, slow. Some mornings I wake up and brew coffee for two.
It is better this way.