There are no hidden corners
in the many-chambered halls
of my mind that you did not,
at any one point in time,
occupy and found residence.
When I close my eyes
and walk down the corridors
of my deepest thoughts,
I find remnants of your habituation:
unfinished menthol cigarette butts;
empty hair wax containers;
used prepaid cell phone cards;
a torn-up issue of GQ from 2004;
dried mud, with your boot print, size 11;
a half-eaten carton of Chinese take out;
a black bandana; a tarnished silver skull ring;
and puddles of disappointments,
frustrations, and fears.
I have no use for any of this
and I am in no mood for cleaning up
after you have gone without a trace.
It is far easier to set these halls ablaze,
to set my memory on fire
with two large cans of kerosene
and a match from a hotel matchbox
I’ve kept for days such as these.
Black smoke will escape
from every one of my orifices,
giving off a stench of anger and despair,
not unlike the smell
of all things rotten
It will take days, maybe even weeks,
before my body will cool down
and resume human form.
But this is the lessor’s burden:
he who invites a tenant
must deal with the things that are left behind
when they depart.
Next time, be intent to sell
and don’t ever give them a reason to leave.