A Minute

I miss you again.
Seems I am all right for
what the kids would call 'a minute'.
Then I remember your touch, your skin.
Your arms around me when all else failed.
Always before I fell short when it came
to leaving you. This time I just deny.
Finally it's seeped everywhere.
Like a bad paint job in the kitchen
might allow the grease of years past
to stream the walls in the
oddest of patterns.
It's as if the walls were crying from years
of being covered in shitty paint.
I can almost relate when I run my hand
along my side, touch the curve of a rib.
There's not much there anymore.
Muscle perhaps, thin layer that it may be.
Too much like the paint for my taste
seeping memories of previous owners
from every pore.