Aftertaste

You left your coat across the chair. Your perfume stayed inside the room. I stood there in the after of it, knowing I should leave there too. Your glass was sweating on the sink, a half-moon lipstick on the rim. I traced the place your fingers were, then wiped the counter clean again. The hallway light was still awake. Your shoes were pointed at the door. I heard the lock inside my head and checked the handle once more. I know the hour. I know the weight. I know the version of myself that couldn't make you stay. You left your aftertaste on everything I touch. I wash the sheets, I change the room, it never does enough. You left your aftertaste underneath my skin. I tell myself I'm finished, then I let you back in. Your number's gone from my phone. I know it better than before. My thumb still stops above the space where your name used to be stored. The bathroom mirror holds a mark where your forehead met the glass. I keep the light on in that room. I haven't cleaned it since you passed. I know the hour. I know the weight. I know the version of myself that keeps the door unlocked and waits. You left your aftertaste on everything I touch. I wash the sheets, I change the room, it never does enough. You left your aftertaste underneath my skin. I tell myself I'm finished, then I let you back in. Don't knock. Don't call. Don't make me choose. I know that voice. I know those shoes. If you came back through that door, I'd hate myself and want you more. You left your aftertaste on everything I touch. I changed the sheets, I changed the room, it never was enough. You left your aftertaste, and now I taste it still. I tell myself I'm finished, then I bend against my will. You left your aftertaste. You left it everywhere. I turn the lock, I kill the lights, and still expect you there. Your coat is still on the chair. I haven't moved it.