I do not water your garden
of love anymore, but the
hydrangeas still grow there.
I try to forget about you,
but the shower drain is
still matted with your hair.
My drawers are still lined
with your scent, bedroom
pillows still dented with
the imprint of your neck.
The printer is still out of
ink because I still don’t
know how to fill it because
you always did that. I am
Linus and my heart is the
blanket I drag behind me,
picking up love and dust
and dirt and love. My heart
is a hoarder. I’ll admit: I have
not deleted the text messages
yet. My heart is not a hunter,
but a gatherer. My heart has
white knuckles and trouble
letting go of you. Why would
anyone let go of you? You,
who once doused my skin
with your wet mouth like
gasoline. You, the jammed
light switch permanently
glowing inside of me. You,
who is not a chapter in my
book, but the page
I am writing on.