Poetry | Journal

The stench of cigarettes is entwined in the fibers of my being,
you left it there
among other things.
Woven in between the strings that hold me together
your remnants don’t wash away nor will they blow dry in warmer weather.
I’m doing better.
With every stain cycle a little more blood wears away
but the smells and sounds refuse to fade.
They could drag me through bleach
and try to shake me loose in the breeze,
and little bits of you would fly like sand from a towel at the beach
but damp stubborn grains will remain in the seams.

Yea I crumpled the itinerary, scrapped our plans in haste
but every imprint you left
on my being has not gone unnoticed,
nor will be left to waste. Those scars
gave me definitions
for who I’ll never be.