I found a piece of your hair while cleaning
my hands.
Water and soap + Suction.
Every piece of dust off of my table,
every cooking memory forevermore a fantasy
as the furniture has been moved.
If you were never here, then this wouldn't be my first soliloquy.
Simplicity it is to allow the body to forget.
While the mind grieves
it has been held in contempt of the former.
Internal insubordination is what plagues me now.
Contempt can be perpetuated to the extravagance of war:
violence, as the most emotive expression
or the least,
is beautiful for it's emotional value. (Or lack thereof)
Emotions driven by conflict, contempt is a Florist's dream,
a cuckold of prime entities, preferential specimen.
Tattered just right.
Contempt is art.
I ought to wash my hands in your hair.
1/19/12
