Still Stuck

Your hair is still stuck to the walls of my shower
my drain still clogs, bathing my feet in dirty water.
Still, I can remember the softness in my hands,
the way it fell when you took it down from a pony,
when you asked me “up or down?” and all I could say
was you look beautiful just the same.

Your hair is still woven into the threads of my pillows
where I do not dare take it out, for how many women
have laid their heads here, and how many times
have I unstuck their hairs, swooping on linen like graffiti,
and how many times have I wished you’d show again
to steal my stained sheets?

Your hair is still stuck to my passenger seat,
useless garbage like the mess of memories I bring up,
as I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing always
that I could forget the nights you spent choosing my music,
my copilot through margaritas and carbonara dinners;
such comfort knowing the night would end with you.

I never drank coffee but my cups still smell like it,
stained from the way you took it, plenty of cream,
two or three tablespoons sugar, sharing eggs and toast,
complimenting cologne I bought to smell good for you,
spraying a spritz or two on the neck I pressed to yours
telling you: lock the door when you leave.

Your hair is still stuck among the knots of my favorite sweater,
mixing with Jägermeister stains and the tears of another failure,
another moment suddenly overwhelmed with grief, hands shaking,
pulling my collar up to cover my face and save my lips
from the sting of another salty hour of weeping, another convulsive frown,
another repetition of your forbidden name.

Don Seljuk is a construction worker and amateur writer living in West Virginia. He likes thrift shopping, going hiking, and having a drink with friends. Despite writing sad poetry he is actually quite optimistic about life.