I sit and I stare

At the blanket sitting

On the futon

In my basement.


I hate to think

If it was shaped like you,

It would affect me

Even less.




You were the one

Who touched it last.

You were the one

Who wadded it up

And left it hanging

Half on the floor.


You were the one

To not only make a mess

Of my basement,

But of also

My mind.


And may be a hermit,

But you havent

Talked to me

In 22 days,

And you haven’t touched me

Or my blanket

In 35.


I want to wash it;

Throw it away,

Burn it to ash.


But I’m scared

When I pick it up,

It will smell

Like your cologne.


And instead,

I’ll wrap it around me

And inhale it’s scent,

Letting it stiffen me

To sleep.


I’ve washed my sheets

And my pillowcases

3 times since

You saw me last.


But I know

won’t be able

To rinse you off

Of me for good.


And that’s why

I sit and stare

At the blanket sitting

On my futon in my basement,

Where you made love to me

The very first time.


And I watch it rot.

I let it rot,


As I feel myself


Right across from it,


And watch


Take another thing that was once


And watch it decompose

Right before our eyes.