Surrogate you
I’m here looking
at you, but you’re just
a frayed pajama top,
the fuzzy tumult of memory.
You were once on my bed
as the cotton torso is now.
Your scent was robust
and erratic like your
menstrual cycle; this
haggard fabric smells
faintly of scrambled
eggs you burnt that last
morning. I skip breakfast now.
I have never been alone
with paisley to hear it
whisper, “I’m so sorry,” but
this one is rich with
your shadow, and scarred
by your cherry red nails.
Hours from now and
away from here, the
early flickers of the sun
jar you from your light sleep,
you pour black coffee,
bite into an unwashed
apple, and open far into the
crinkled journal, my name
interred under the tidy composition
of your new life.
Hours from now and
right here, I look over my bed,
kiss the delicate footprints
you left around it,
and lay myself to sleep
on surrogate you.