The Blame-Game

Falling out of touch, in internal rhymes.

David Matos on Unsplash

Rows of shampoo domino here.

You
read labels funny, mistaking light maple syrup for fresher, darker honey
your
eyes glide over misapplied price stickers like the dirt stained gloss they are stuck upon. Later,
you
wake in heaves and sighs, dreading the everyday of old hellos and old goodbyes.
You
had distilled purer cleansers in your dreams. In the morning,
you
gave them to me. The next day, if you disappear, I will age. Like cheap wine, like a Renaissance painting shredded, shriveled into twine.
Your
wrung out tubes of shampoo will grey, waiting for you in the night, diluted by me in the day.