real estate

there is a house that i live in

it is empty now

save for the layered blues and greens

muted under the lamp light

of layered rugs

and lazy writings

this twilight slants through me

you do not track mud in and out of our home

no

it is the pulp of wilted petals i grew in the garden out back

tracked

bruised and torn and bleeding onto my father’s persian carpet

in the living room

what about contentment?

i fear that if i am not careful to tiptoe

across lines of linen and cloth

hung

the inevitable return

will grip me before i am ready

my ex-believer

could have emerged from the dirt

in beads of synthetic fertilizer

a sign of the times

limb by limb

a skull molded from steel

chipped at with two front teeth

my dirtied fingernails scratching at the glory of you

animal beneath sheaths of keratin

now

teething on chapped lips

in all of this

full disclosure:

i have not opened the windows

i have not covered the mirrors

i have not saged the bedroom

i have not emptied the glasses in the sink

i will you to linger here longer