I can’t pick up the clothes

that Hannah left on the floor;

it’s a clutter of keepsakes

smeared with her lipstick

and stains from sweaty sex.

Hannah was translucent,

painting pictures to articulate

the breath she left behind as a kiss

keeps her tongue on my mind, the words

Hannah pushed through her lips

as I touched her hips;

the scent of summer anxiety covered this dress.

Either she comes home or, by God,

I’ll burn everything she owns

to the ground, take the insurance

money and skip town to hunt her down

and do it all again.

In a huff, Hannah penned a laundry list of demands.

“You’ve got a mess of your own to fix.”

“I guess I’ll do the laundry,” I said in a low tone.

“Wait,” Hannah said, grabbing my wrist. “Let’s go make some more dirty bedsheets.”

I cracked a grin.

Hannah bit her lower lip and gave me a sultry wink.

By Andy Cooper

From: United States

Twitter: AC0040