Currents

The sofa is gone and the carpet is bruised

where the weight of the cushions once sat.

I’m stripping the room of the things that we used,

the boxes, the books, and the old welcome mat.

I pull back the lamp and the wall is revealed,

with two narrow slits in a beige, dusty plate.

A hole in the plaster that won't be concealed,

looking back with a hollow, mechanical hate.

It’s a mouth with no words, just a hunger for light,

a copper-wired heart that has nothing to feed.

I leave it behind in the oncoming night,

a quiet reminder of everything we don't need.