The counter...was dirty.
The kitchen counter was dirty, plastered with bills and plates and the leftovers of someone's
Overload insanity, and I promise you,
None of it was mine.
One day, maybe one day, I'll dig through his mess,
The layers of artifacts to sasisfy every archeologist
And writer of the juciest gossip.
One day, I'll chip down, and I'll find
The bills he said he paid, or
The plates he said he washed, or
The love letters from the strawberry redhead he swore he
Only knew from work
And had nothing to do with.
One day I will dig through the remains,
The only stink of him left since I turned my back that Friday,
And I will throw it away, one by one,
Bills and love alike,
I'll toss from the window with relish
And take my counter back.
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