Tangible

she knew that loneliness was something tangible
dripping black and thick off the undersides of unstable bar stools
leaving a sticky residue on the edges of razorblades
left like water marks by the bottoms of vodka bottles

and she could see it seeping from her eyelids
when she looked at him
and could feel it, gummy
on the lines he once traced on the palms of her hands
showing how he was in written here and there
on her gently wrinkled life lines

loneliness pools dark in the hollow on the bed next to her
where he once lay
where he once traced the piercing, sunken bones of her lower back
as though to fix their source
as though he, or anyone, could.