The drain holds a knot of wet hair
and a gold earring from a wedding in June.
It smells of bleach and yesterday's toothpaste,
a small, damp museum of everything I lost.
I tried to fish it out with a bent coat hanger,
stabbing at the sludge like a desperate surgeon.
The water swirled grey and thick,
carrying away a flake of skin and a dead fly.
I think of you in that silk dress,
all shivering and expensive,
while I stand here in my underwear,
holding my breath against the scent of sulfur.