He Liked My Hair Long

Today I wrote a poem about a heart-shaped stain in front of my bedroom door. It formed when I spilled the wine he brought. When he was here...in the desert...in me...with me. Just a memory ago. 

Truthfully, I’ve known many stain-causing men, but never one to imprint the floor. And never in this shape. The others left different marks—most of them gruesome images saturated in disappointment and neglect.

And so I wonder, this new stain mocking me with its stench of irony and acidic bouquets-- what is to be done now? Erase the little fucker? Impossible. At best, another must replace it. Off to find the next stain. But first, I need the wine.