grief

Rain spattered on a windshield.
The drip of a car muffler.
When I drive they come.

They come when I lay down.
Mascara-smudged sheets.
Cold toes wrapped twice in blankets.

Flowing down cheeks into mouth and nose.
Dropping to wooden floors.
Staining clothes.

I am drenched with grief.

He is a thief that steals my days.
Collecting time and keeping it for hours.
He scatters it about the house.
Scribbled paper, thinning photographs.

The faucet leaks into the tub.
The steam rises to cover a body soggy with misery.
Saline soaks my soiled skin.

I am clean. I am clean.