If We Had Rented… (a made-up supposition)

My heart just as we left it

But yellowed a bit.

Nearly all.

By the bed.

Old clothes,

Like our lethargies,

Rest on a Cherrywood desktop, folded and

Very still—a breath held

To the blotter,

As the desk throws

Its shadow about the

Floor,

To be caught in the sun:

You probably won’t recall.

 

A splinter of mine.

Old coins in dust.

Pockmarks.

A purring of early lovers,

Lost in the outline where

My hands bruise the desktop,

Where I often wrote, but

I’m not sure.

My fingers trace it,

Through many layers.

I taste the voice of this room,

But I do not hear it;

I’m not sure the voice we shared

Is just as we left it.

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