Read at 12:37 AM

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.