Ash in the Porcelain

Ash in the Porcelain

Ash in the cup
where the brushes belong
cigarette ends telling
where it went wrong

Sitting on the porcelain
shaking with cold
smoke curling round
in the space that you hold

Your toothbrush is leaning
inside of the glass
bristles bent
watching hours pass

Blue fading down
to a tired old pink
standing guard
over the white of the sink

I say I will toss it
and clear out the shelf
but I can’t bring the hand
to do it myself

Towel on the hook
holding the shape
a thin cotton ghost
in a half-folded drape

I stand in the water
on my side alone
leaving your corner
as cold as a stone

The things that you left
are loud in the head
filling the space
where nothing is said

Hair tie waiting
on the faucet steel
a black little circle
that makes it all real

I slip it on the wrist
tight on the skin
wearing the memory
of where we have been

Razor rusting
in the wire rack
blade getting dull
with no way to go back

I run a thumb
along the metal edge
pulling away
from the sharp little ledge

They say to let go
like flipping a light
like I can fix it
in the middle of the night

They don’t stand barefoot
on the tile floor
tasting the ash
and wanting you more

One day the cup
will be empty and clean

Until then
it holds everything
we have been