sleep as long as you need to. wake up and get clean. start with the shower. wash your hair, and soap that part of your collarbone where he kissed you like fireworks in the summertime until you can't feel it anymore. keep scrubbing. when it fades, wash away the imprint of him from the side of your face. get soap in your eyes and your mouth and let the sting burn away having found heaven at that space that lives just above the top button of his shirt. make the water so hot that you can barely stand it. use a rough brush on your fingertips until they're tender; wash away those absentminded moments where you twirled his hair in your hands, when it was just sunset behind the olympics on the couch and nothing else mattered. let the soap sit in all your cuts and try to rinse those halos out of your eyes. breathe deep. this will work. bleach the tub when you're done.
stand in the steam with a towel afterward and realize nothing works, and that there are no answers here.
get dressed in yesterday's clothes and put the kitchen back together. scrape the dishes from last night and rinse the laughter and the kisses down the drain. wipe all those moments off the table and the countertop, throw away that light that came through the slats like crumbs, toss the way those seascape eyes couldn't see anything but you. go into the living room next and put away the records, shelving the heartswells that matched the meter of the songs spinning on the turntable. keep doing this throughout all the rooms until there is no trace of last night and nothing is out of place. then, stand in front of the stereo when you're done with the power off. hear the hum of the traffic and the distinct sound of radio silence, and realize none of it has made a shred of difference.