Wine stains in the backseat of my Nissan
Saturated memories cling to fibers
I scrub but they still sit
Like you against the folds of my mind.
Oxy? No.
Bleach? No.
What can remove you?
Do I have to tear up the fabric with a box cutting knife?
Leaving serrated, frayed edges of the imperfect surgery
A hole I might cover with a mat or stitch a mismatching patch.
Or
I might do nothing and let it sit as a reminder.
I don’t know how the bottle even got there
Left over from some party about love
Tipped over slightly with a single drop of aged grape tears
Less salty than the ones that stained my face.
The ones I tried to wipe away but they clung too hard
Absorbing into my epidermis.
I thought you saw them when we laid close together
That’s why I turned away
But I don’t think you noticed
Or maybe you did but you didn’t make a fuss.
You seem pretty good at making things normal.
And I’m pretty good at hiding stains.