The room smells as it were yours, and not mine.
It smells of the absence of churned wax and roses.
Moist eats walls like children bite inner cheeks without purpose;
Strangers wouldn't know without a hint, though. You've crossed the line.
The sheets hold your spirit in selfish holds. You're part of the design.
The scent of your past lives last longer than your kisses and blushes.
The room smells of calcium and cherries and cold needles and boxes.
Your armed arms attach and your absences that leave no absence. That's the punch line.
Ephemeral impressions leave the mattress unmarked. Yet you
Remain like the cursed presence of a present in decline.
Fighting against age and decay, the smell of skin and muscles and bones
pour through the pore in the wall. To leave an impression—that—you knew.
Your summery midnight silhouette sits on left side like my own Frankenstein.
The room smells as it were not mine, but of your ghost under the stones.