Remnants of you.

Mildly offensive, wildly intentional.

The way my place smells when you leave.

The scent on my sheets

That which lingers on my clothes

The warm, calm you that sticks to my skin still.

The dust that’s settled

The air that’s resumed usual motion

The time on the clock that can now move slowly, or normally, or not at all.

Creases on my linen like white chalk lines at the scene of a murder

A hollow in my pillow that’s rarely there

The shyness of my coy curtains for what they’ve witnessed or maybe they’re ashamed of how I hang them low whenever you come around.

I think the wood in my bed frame must giggle like school girls

The walls whispers secretively

While the Bluetooth speaker adjusting his tie proudly for the show he just put on, a mood well created.

I’m quite certain the vanity mirror watches

you wash up in awe and…

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