This micro won first place in the National Flash Fiction Day Micro Contest 2023:
gone before the toothpaste flattened out, leaving behind ellipses of passion on my thighs, tumbler stains on the nightstand, coat hangers, belt buckles, cigarette ash, Altoids tins, dimes and nickels, nail clippers, beard butter, and hairs in the bathroom—embedded in the grout between tiles, suspended in the clouds of shaving foam, curled up on the soap bar like commas. On owl nights, I watch the lakes and lagoons asterisked in the wall map, places I said I wanted to visit with them, and their faces float like bubbles in bath water, their eyebrows question marks, their mouths full stops.