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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