Before you,
there existed a place
(inside me)
a room.
Unplastered.
Under construction.
Young kids
without fear
would come and
graffiti the ceiling.
I would scrub
and scrub
with a wire brush
until my cuticles bled.
Still, shadows.
Echoes
to paint over
but I’d know
would still exist.

Now, no place exists
without you.
You are the perfume
in the rooms
of my soul. No
room without your
essence,
no wallpaper untouched
by its rosewater,
leather,
late afternoon weather.
A memory embedded
in my present sight,
touching everything
with a soft shade
of
“yearn” and “require”

What graffiti?
What echo?
What hurt?

You are the room.
There is no
living in this house
without you.

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