Drainage

The water has been slow for weeks now,

swirling into a murky, reluctant pool

that stays long after I’ve finished the shave.

I finally put the wrench to the PVC pipe,

cracking the seal on a secret I didn't want.

It slides out in a slick, black-grey rope,

a matted heavy weight of what you left behind.

It’s longer than anything I’ve ever grown,

dripping a cold, grey slime onto the tile

like a drowned thing coming home to roost.

I hold the wet clump in my bare palm,

feeling the ghost of your head on the pillow.

I thought I’d scrubbed the house of your scent,

but here you are, clogging up the works,

anchored in the dark where the soap goes to die.