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Not your paintings on the wall,
not the sculptures among the dusty books,
but the air that holds you still
in this room, the very molecules
vibrating from the voice that died,
the pressure of your glance only
now releasing the Japanese print,
the head our daughter carved in clay.

If technicians applied their magic dust,
your fingerprints would show on the walls.
Your pheromones are caught on the windows.
If I lick the glass I'll draw
the smell of you into my tongue.

      — Lucile Blanchard