Washing Away

I'm in the shower, getting ready for

my first date since you. I thought I'd never go on another date in my life without your face across from me. I am washing off that picture of you and her, with that smile you used to have for only me. You said you loved her. It was there, in writing. Rinse. Repeat.

I'm in the shower where we shared bubble fights, facing the caddy where you kept your man products. I wash with the lavender body wash you bough​​t me for my birthday. The body wash outlasted the boy. I dry with the towel you used for that sexy strip tease that had me in stitches.

You surround me.

I apply the makeup I bought to take on our vacation and style my hair the way you liked it best, when you would absentmindedly run your fingers through it.

I play music to distract my mind, and a song comes on that you played while we cleaned the kitchen together.

They say every few years, our skin has regenerated so much that it is not the same skin from years before. When will I shed you for good? I wait for the day when every cancerous cell stops poisoning every new moment without you.