discarded homes

there are mice thumping in the walls and
raccoons digging up through the vinyl flooring,
spreading rancidity in halls where coffee-steam lingered;
the floors are weak and weary, wet
and wearing threadbare carpet
like mouldering, moth-battled flesh,
where once two lovers laid and laughed and
noses brushed together while their hands breezed
across familiar planes – here,
bedsprings spill from their padded host like
parasites in bloom, here
there was a home, once,
people lived here,
people loved here,
is where all homes end up,
when the past is left to compost.

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