Dishrag

I'm a damp dishrag. I find myself draped over the furniture, warming in the light of the morning after last night. Last night. My edges are curling and darkened as I try to collect my fire-ant feelings. I feel there are so many they blur to a swelling, swirling mass with no discernible border. Sadness, perhaps... anger? Not now. My anger is an aerosol can in a campfire. I'm sure I will confront it when I'm 30 and my toddler drops a dish.
Empty. Hollow. Shockingly devoid. A cave so dark you can not see your hand before your face, even when it's so close you can feel the heat of it. And him... I think of him and he's gone from the real to the abstract. I realize I can't think of him as a person right now, or else I risk thinking of myself as a person as well. Only a person can be hurt. Objects are safe, they can be broken but never hurt.
Soggy and limp and used, I watch the hands of the clock spin and spin like a record playing a stupid, too-long song about finding love. And I, I lie in my own damp chill and wait and wait and wait. Why hope for clean? For now I'll just settle for dry.