He left a mark upon my pillowcase
An indellible stain of where his head rested
That he was here
He left a scull-sized stamp
Like the shadow of the deep impression from his giant noggin
Was so fixed it could never come out
He left a patch of scalp grease
The kind textile companies should use in all of their dye vats
Because no matter how many times I wash the linens,
His big stupid head stares back at me
Like he marked his territory
Left a big oily calling card
Leaked all of his half-baked, deep-fried dreams
Onto our pillows and then just dissolved into a yellow circular imprint of where he used to be, used to love me
He left a mark upon my heart
That no amount of tears has yet to wash away…
