Maia Huddleston
each time i cross the parking lot: mourning the smell of piss and beer from beneath your chin where the
stubble scratched my lips
pawing through photographs of the plants we bought together, still rotting in your kitchen, shedding
remains on the marble countertops
when, the last time we saw each other, i bought us dinner with my $24 paycheck. and you let me
just don’t be poor, you said
the handheld shower wand laughed down at me from its throne above the spout,
a routine i thought was sacred
then, curled up in bed while my hair soaked your pillowcase:
i let you take a part of me i never thought i’d share
still, i wish i had said goodbye to that clingy mutt you worshipped. who watched me leave through the
glass door for the last time
did you know, then? how big the space between your fingertips