Shrine

The rectangle on the wall is a brighter shade

where the sun couldn't reach behind the tape.

It’s a ghost of a choice that I once made,

a paper idol in a jagged shape.

I helped her lift the box of wool and moth,

moving the layers of a life I outgrew.

The twin mattress is a thin, dusty cloth

that remembers a body I no longer knew.

Dust motes spin in a violent, gold line,

dancing in the light of a dead afternoon.

This room was never meant to be a shrine,

just a place I intended to leave quite soon.