Skimt's Marrow

I pass through halls
where all is wet,
through empty rooms
her pet has left.

And then I’m back,
but not for long.
My rooms are hers.
Do I belong?

She stands in black,
that old church suit,
her long blonde hair
cut short and mute.

She sees my ex,
then looks at me,
and sees the waste
I tried to keep.

I say, “It’s fine;
there isn’t much,”
but more appears
beneath my touch.

The bag rips and leaks
across the floor.
She strips in silence,
asks no more.

No shame in her,
no blame, no fear,
as if my ruin
brought her near.

I try to speak.
My head goes still.
I lean too close
against my will.

My mouth finds hers.
She shoves me down.
I feel no fear.
I make no sound.

It’s wrong, I know,
and yet she stays:
her tongue in mine,
and rightness frays.

And then I wake,
and grief comes through.
The pills are there.
Her lips are too.