Oatmeal and Hair

Sun, 12/15/2013 - 22:23 -- amckane


She rolls open her blinds, squinting at the sun
in her eyes, and turns away. Remnants of oatmeal and hair
are left in the sink of her apartment, and she is the one left to clean it.

Outside her dusty, neglected blinds, she sees them walking from their dwellings of the night before, testing their longed-for superpower of invisibility.

Maybe they should’ve left earlier. But as she scoffs
at them, she fears one day that may become her,
carnal desire ending with the crisp new air.

Without turning to a smile, without steadiness, longevity.
Rather than turning over, meshing with him

for more sleep, he is the one leaving, inconspicuous other
than the dress shoes and slightly ruffled hair. And perhaps
a hair or two of hers on his blue cotton undershirt

he’d worn to bed. She woke up expecting to see a chance at more than just
convoluted friendship. Instead, she found her room picked up

of her clutter, put in the places he knew it belonged.
But his black button-up was left hanging on
her chair, an unspoken promise for one more night.

She looks out the window hoping to catch a glimpse at his slightly hunched
over walk, like a pinch in a dream to assure reality. 


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