Danielle Walczak 

 

Recently I’ve been sleeping on the other side of the bed to

move the sheets around.

 

Without you in it, it is easier to make in the morning.

 

I wake up, put on my slippers

put on my coffee and my armor

I put toothpaste on my toothbrush and on my teeth

I take you off and put on a jacket, pants

two shoes.

Mittens, so I can control what I let touch me.

 

They said the smell of almonds is associated with death

But all I can smell is your pumpkin spice candle

softening and curling open inside of me.

In the shower, I can feel you climbing in my pores and start singing

I am unable to wash you out.

If I didn’t know what death felt like

I think it would smell like this.

 

Sunny-side up and with too much salt.

Smell like road slush in a clean snowstorm

Like sex and like spearmint

tea. Like morning breath and sunflowers.

It’d smell like sticker mustaches and pink lemonade.

I’d want it to smell a lot like you.

 

I miss your breakfast sandwiches.

 

Radio silence is the worst kind of quiet

Anticipation of your guitar string sentiment

sediment, or fear

but my bed sheet

sea

is calmer with out you in it.