Stall

The tile is cold as the back of a spade

where I’m leaning my head in the blue-tinted shade.

The Sharpie is bleeding right into the grout,

a permanent scream or a permanent shout.

'Sarah was here' in a loop of a hand,

scratched in a place that she hadn't quite planned.

It’s dated a decade ago in the spring

back when a name was a different thing.

I knew a Sarah who laughed with her teeth,

with a whole lot of trouble tucked in underneath.

Now she’s a ghost on a partition wall

and I’m just a man in a bathroom stall.