This house is old, with paint
peeling in large flakes and
flecks of plaster like tiny secrets
falling from the ceiling. I laid
the white dress hanging lonely
in the closet to rest, gave the
forgotten sheets to Goodwill,
shined up the empty rusted picture frame
and placed you inside it. But
your smoke has seeped into the walls;
no matter how much I scrubbed or
painted, the footprints on the steps
remain. Now, the cats have conversations
with empty corners. I don’t hear the
whispering until it’s dark and
I’m lying in bed, a hushed heart, beating
ever so slight, like moth’s wings.
As I pull the covers up to my chin,
I wonder: when I have moved on,
what will I leave behind?