the haints are home to what memory leaves behind
a lone fixture hangs
center cracked ceiling
small pleated shade
the bare shelves
are what blood rusts
when the scales
that each measure
of old paper paints
when time
was pictured
as a framed reveal
peeled, little by little
to dry skin here
near the daylight
spilling over
all the notches in
the wide plank floors
even with
our eyes closed
the cold fireplace knows
it is tiled with what
we’ve forgotten
and laces itself to
our noses
in the dust here
where the smell
that races, paces
vined past our faces
when the door opens
the unmistakable song
of what spirits remember
when they know
the bouquet of where
home used to be
in our eyes
when we could see
without closing them
to smell the comforts
of living here too
EJR ©
This is now, by far, my favorite of anything you've written since I began reading you. And of course, in the title, one of my favorite words :) Really wonderful Edward.
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