Partition

The velvet is heavy and smells of the floor.

A hinge gives a creak like a ghost at the door.

I sit in the dark where the cedar is cold,

holding a story that's already old.

Through the grid of small holes, a shadow moves near.

The murmur of things I don't want to hear.

It’s better than looking at eyes or at skin.

Just a box for the weight of the places we've been.