Cord Speelman
Brandon L. Brown

Propping myself up at the sink, my face,
my blue eyes bleached and blanched and worn too thin,
dripping and smeared like watercolor paint,
diluted too much, I think. Then I grin
to convince myself it doesn’t matter.
There’s your toothbrush next to mine—a small thing—
sitting side by side all worn and spattered,
not like the sink where I took off my ring,
laid it next to the pink and perfumed soaps
you used to have before the baby came.
Our words have rubbed and rubbed away at hope;
it’s the silence sitting in the same
room, dreaming different dreams together—
but I smile, pretend it doesn’t matter.