Stain (after reading Charles Bukowski’s Love is a Dog from Hell)

when the stain of semen dried
over last night’s lovemaking
I fluffed the mattress,
as if to swim and scour
the memories underneath
the folds, the flounces
of the crumpled blanket.

I found an ivory-colored blot
like a size of the mole
on your nape. was it
your cum or mine?

so I leaned over my cheek
close to the stain, sniffed
as if to sift whose scent
still lingers, whose moans
still resonate.
until my tears soused
the ivory blot.

only the redolence
of silence


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