His absence stabbed like a knife,
leaving trenches too deep to fill.
He was always hours late,
finding her on the clammy tiled floor
preparing for her finale.
Gazing down at a porceline face,
starry eyed, and forgetful of what took place
before the gentile warmth began pooling onto her boney thigh.
Dipping a pointy fingertip into her own paint
and smudging onto the Listerine green tile,
what she imagined a heart would look like,
[if she were to ever meet anyone who had one.]
Her hands were of an artist, aged beyond their years
fortifying a brush for a taste-test of love.
Reaching out, only for him to pull back in shock
Letting that crimson hand fall limp
echoing in her heartache.
He use to love holding those hands
and how they were always cold from her poor circulation.
Today he turned away in disgust.
Disgusted with himself for falling short
for letting her hate defeat his love for her.
Kissing her soft bitter lips
and laying his head aside hers just as the heater turned on
blowing on his face from the vent beneath her vanity
He fogged the mirror with his stale breath
Just to remember he was alive.
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