The Wallet
It was deep burnished brown,
you know—
softened by hands,
oiled to death by them.
Swollen with what it carried.
Straining at the seams.
I laid it out.
It was still full.
One by one,
I emptied it.
Cards.
A licence.
Old stamps
(no one uses those anymore).
A small folded note—
set aside.
A guitar pick, grey.
A luggage tag,
its name rubbed away.
A library card.
A condom.
Coins in the purse.
Crumpled notes—
nothing worth keeping.
Nothing remarkable.
Nothing that mattered.
Everything laid bare—
yet somehow
not flat.
Something resisted.
Too stiff.
Too heavy.
What had I missed?
I took a knife
and opened the seam.
I wanted it emptied properly.
That’s when they slipped out.
Two photographs.
Black and white.
Old.
But you—
unmistakable.
Your grey eyes
cut straight through me,
left me tearing
from the inside.
I went back to the note.
Black ink.
Hurried.
Slanted—
that tell-tale angle
your left hand
could never hide.
The note
was addressed to him.
But it was the scent of it
that gave her away.
The Note
I can still smell you on me, you know.
It’s been months, but somehow you linger.
How do you do that to me?
I can taste you too,
and I still have the slight graze on my lips
where you tugged on them.
I hope it never heals;
I treasure its texture
as I wrap my tongue around my mouth.
It darts about with a sinister probing,
but its inexorable path
leads to your wounding.
Why couldn’t you stay?
Am I such a monster,
such a drain on your precious life?
You know I hated you for that too.
For as much as my belly melts
at the thought of your touch,
it burns with anger
at the way you left.
I deserved more,
but you could not wait to get away,
leaving me with your aftermath,
your strangely delicate aroma.
At first, I thought it was something
in my wardrobe—
rubbing off on my blouses,
my skirts,
even my hat.
But after a while I realised
I had been inebriated
with everything that was you.
I thought about burning the lot, you know.
Just throwing it on Dad’s bonfire
and adding a bit of gasoline
for good measure.
But I simply couldn’t do it,
and now I suffer the result.
Mum says I am a mess;
she’s told me as much
and tells me I must put on
my big girl panties
and get over it—
get over you.
But still,
I wait for you to return.