somehow i expected the contents of your medicine cabinet to match the contents of your strange and marvelous brain. i expected potions and flasks, parchment and ink, brown soap and silver-handled razors (the kind our great grandfathers might have used). i expected to find romance on the shelves behind the tarnished mirror, but what i found could’ve belonged to any balding broker or sweaty clerk in these United States: floss, cotton swabs, a pair of glasses with only one lens, and, there on the top shelf, half hidden behind a bottle of peroxide, a heartbreaking box of anti-diarrheals, family-sized.
why should i have expected anything different? even a honey-tongued shakespeare has nose hairs to tweeze. even a greek god needs to shit.
i try to remember what you looked like that first night we met, sitting next to me on the porch swing with that smile and those eyes. (you were singing a song, but which one?) i try to remember exactly what you said to me, something about the wind and the sea. i try to remember how i felt when you leaned in to kiss me.
i go back to bed but you have already fallen asleep: snoring, slack-jawed, as any mortal might.