The thing is, when you give someone more love than they can hold, they stick pieces of it in careless places. Like a handful of loose change from cashiers, they slide it in back pockets and cup holders, just until their hands are free. But when we set things down with intentions to pick them later, we often forget where we put them. Hence, love lost.
She comes from the shadows of familiar places. The friendly face in the neighboring cubicle. The chai-ordering coffee shop regular. Her aura creeps behind the happy and unsuspecting–waiting; seeping through the rifts in their union. She sits on bar stools in dark lounges under rings of cigarette smoke. She doesn’t speak unless spoken to, but her eyes say “count me in.”
Pieces of her are strewn about your home.
Strands of her hair, tangled in his shirt buttons in the hamper.
Her scent, trapped in the drain as he washes away her dirty whispers.
Her peppermint saliva still on his tongue as he drools onto his pillow.
She is a stray stitch, woven into the lives of others. Hard to see, but impossible not to feel.
Like his five senses, he takes you for granted.
You’re at his fingertips, always within reach. Under his nose, your wilted floral scent of low self-esteem.
Always in his peripheral, he feels no need to look into your pupils.
Always within earshot, his cold acknowledgments chill the coffee you left on for him. You’ve lost all your senses, except the bitter taste in your mouth.