Messy

I took the last cotton ball
from your drawer
where you keep your things at my place.
I used it to tone my skin
with your astringent,
cleaning my face temporarily
with your texture.
I dare not use your other stuff—
shave gel, smelling of lilac and something flowery,
deodorant, strong enough for a man,
clearly made for a woman,
a purplish-pink razor, and your toothbrush—
actually, I’ve used that several times.
But those Orbit gum wrappers
I find all over my car—
in the door,
on and under the front seats
are different.
I caught you last time,
although in a cute way,
your sneakily subtle approach
to dropping a wrapper in the ashtray
as if to trade
for a quarter, nickel, or dime
for coffee.
As if your stuff in the drawer
doesn’t take up enough space,
I found three of your Starbucks’ cups
in my backseat.