No need to steal into my room,
the door’s open
and you’re welcome to visit at any time.
I’m elsewhere but my scent lingers –
pink pepper and lilacs lacing base tones
of amber patchouli.
My shape has shifted,
my absent form leaving a melancholy imprint
on the memory foam mattress
and faith has left faint scratches
where I hand-cuffed myself
to the creamy metal spokes of the antique bed.
The solid warm-wood chest
belies the mercurial nature of the
diaphanous garments secreted within;
slip-stitched silky knickers
sewn with shaky fingers,
invisible, unbreakable thread.
You may lift them,
lay them on the purple counterpane
and immerse yourself in their forlorn fantasies
but should you attempt to snip at their seams
unpick the hard-earned sutures
that have held together the woman
you will be left with disintegrating rags,
tattered remnants of the past,
while the girl you once knew walks away, naked.