Soaked

It is like old wallpaper being 
scraped from a plaster wall; 
at 

that age, it’s not meant 
to be yet it is.

Question 

every word, wink, and breath. 
It makes me think every

kiss, 

every caress, every undress was 
an inside joke. A gift, 
a 

meal, clean laundry—it’s all 
part of a final act 
that 

I never auditioned for. Question 
every picture we ever took 
or 

had taken of us, such 
a low, rough and swollen 
space. 

Hard to see the sides 
of it, the top or 
the 

bottom.