The Ghost of the Rent

The rug is rolled and taped. The floor is bare,

a sea of scuffed-up oak and settling grit.

My voice sounds like a stranger’s in the air;

it hits the walls and doesn't seem to fit.

I found an earring under the radiator,

a crusty, cheap, and silver-plated thing.

I should have found it months ago, or later,

but now it’s just a sharp and tiny sting.

The walls are mapped with ghosts. The rectangles

where pictures hung are paler than the rest.

I’m caught in all the dusty, empty angles

of a place I never fully possessed.

I check the closets one last time for socks

or shadows. There is nothing left to find.

I’m just a body moving heavy boxes

and leaving all the better parts behind.