I don’t think I’ve ever had a cup of coffee that didn’t a little bit end up on my shirt and so naturally many items of clothing of mine are stained: by coffee, by grass, by curry, by the touches of lovers who forgot my name but left their trace all over me so I could never forget theirs.
You refused to answer my “please talk to me” texts over Thanksgiving break, so I deleted your number, and washed your scent from my pillow case, and I tried to wash your touch from me too, but it was still there—lingering and ernest.
Sometimes I feel like lovers sew themselves into my skin, with thread so thin it is not visible to the naked eye, but I can feel it, laced up next to my veins. There’s no such thing as forgetting, only learning to live with another body within mine.
