collecting dust  

The only things I could fit down my throat

were misshapen pieces you left behind

in cupboards

under rugs

on top shelves of closets.

The things you could not reach

I stood up on chairs and swallowed them:

moth-eaten sweaters

thrift store plates

books with penciled names.

The nails that held your photographs

I swallowed those too,

while staring at faded squares on eggshell paint

remembering you stayed long enough for the sun to fade walls.

These things, I thought they would taste different in the dark.

I thought they would taste like you.

I thought they would fill all the empty spaces

collecting dust.

My insides are beginning to resemble the rooms you left.


 

Born in the fog of San Francisco, Nicolette Daskalakis is an award-winning writer, filmmaker, and internationally-exhibited photographer. She is the author of because you're now banging a French girl, All The Boys I Never Kissed, and her most recent book, Portrait of Your Ex Assembling Furniture. Currently based in Los Angeles, Nicolette continually reads her work to crowds at literary locales including The Last Bookstore, Stories Books and Cafe, Book Show, and others. You can find her at www.nicolettedaskalakis.com or on instagram @nicolettepoetry 

 

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