Love leaves its aftermath:
you change the sheets, you crave a bath,
peel lurid lipstick's skin from skin
while mirroring your rictus. Thin,
white lines like lies along your arm—
telltales of "superficial" harm.
So much for sentiment. You know
all days are similar, then go,
beginning low, then going down.
The sickness surfaces; you drown.
Still water waits like lukewarm balm,
but somewhere underneath its calm
cool, nullifying currents flow—
an overwhelming undertow.
Philip Quinlan has a chapbook, Head Lands (White Violet Press, 2012). He received nominations, in 2011, for both The Best of the Net and Pushcart. His work has appeared in: The Flea, The Chimaera, Lucid Rhythms, Lilt, Soundzine, Numinous, The Avatar Review, The Centrifugal Eye, Sea Stories, Shit Creek Review, Shot Glass Journal, Victorian Violet Press, Whale Sound, Studio 360, In Stereo Press, The Hypertexts, Lighten Up Online, Antiphon and Raintown Review. He is also co-editor of Angle Journal of Poetry in English. He lives in the UK.