Dusted with the echoes of those gone before
The lagging whisper of time.
Carpets printed with faded patterns of nothing,
Footprints flecking the floor like blood.
Shrills shrieks of silence, assessing
The common brokenness.
Crisp bedclothes betraying nothing,
Every sound a death knell.
Sticky hot with the exhaustive efforts to
Chalk dust and pressed granite replaced by the tapping of keys
Jingling their way to a muffled end.
They are not for sitting: do not go in there.
Laced with the strain of too little space
Walls of want crumble and rebuild themselves,
Ghosts of fingers reach through, but clasp nothing.
Scented with loneliness and the musk of
Desperation and dying.
Beds hard and stiff and not for sleeping, but for
The nothing that follows the too-brief ecstasy.
Clouded with pretending and breaking smiles
Candle wicks burned down to nothing.
Salted tears arrive with room service,
Charges for the stains that will not out.
Suffocating loneliness, the terror of being seen
Throats parched and closed, voice useless, legs tired
Mouth open—then nothing.