sixtyeight

There was something dispersed with the
way he lived, at least looking from
what remained. Her glass eye was still,
unsuprisingly, engaged in his being.

Thick and unkempt, the way she
loved it, grew her garden, the garden
he never bothered to tend to after she left.
Here and there a dead bud winked at him.

Her lipstick had a way of leaving something more
than a mark on his cheek. Cherry-red soaking into
his bones. As it rolled under the couch, he was once
again cleaning up one of the messes she made.