On the days of unbrushed teeth,
In the sanctuaries of our beds,
Please help us to accept our wisdom
In the glory of our grossness.

Counting the days since you

Day one without you:
I burrow in schematics of electrical things. In trying to understand them, I hope I can forget you. I fail in both regards. I choke myself with ruggedized cables. I fail a third time.

Day two without you:
I surround myself with people who are not you. I remember that there are people who are not you. I eat a buffet lunch. I sob into a shakey sleep, fingers grasping the palm of my phone.

Day three without you:
The people still are not you. They are offensively not you. I salt my Caesar salad with tears at the table. I learn that grief is unappetising. I acknowledge that this is grief. I push my plate away. I hope I lose too much weight.

Day four without you:
I drive. I drive as far as I can. I have to stop to pee. I whisper promises to trinkets in shops. I abandon them before committing to the checkout. I delete your number. I switch off my phone.

Day five without you:
I try not to write about you. Nothing rhymes. I turn my phone back on. I reply to my mum’s messages. I wait for a text from an unknown number.