Katrina Kaye

due to the dirty dishes
or unrepaired holes in
the plaster. It was the
silence of your eyes.
Their passion drained
of all its red, the red
I once watched crawl
across your bed, before
it was our bed when I
was still chasing
dreams of migration.
It was the daily dregs
which cut the ropes of
our first love. The
terrible expression of
your day sipping cheap
beer just to get you
to sleep. It was when
we stopped going to bed
together and just slept
in the same place among
slightly different time
lines. The crack it left
was too severe and too
close to the skin. My
temperament dulled, the
anxiety that kept me bent
over kitchen sink has
dissipated and now I let
the dust collect on window
sill till it turns to mud
in the morning dew.

Previously published in Madness Muse Press (2020).