Smell Like Nothing
A room flickers under a
nearly dead bulb.
The mattress keeps the deep impression of a body,
cold air stealing whatever heat was left as I pull back under the covers.
By morning, the shirt
has borrowed the room’s smell.
A half-filled glass leaves a ring near the door.
An unread book sits open on its face,
cracked open the width of a penny.
The window, latch half turned,
hand curled but not closed.
Morning again, to the same failing light.
I thought the room
would keep its scent for good.
Instead I find it
folded into the shirt,
into nothing.
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