You left a shape in every room you entered.
Not a stain β a permission.
The air kept your outline for hours
the way a jar keeps the smell of what it held.
I have tried to fill it with furniture,
with other bodies, with cooking smoke,
with arguments loud enough to reshape the walls.
Nothing takes.
The evening light still bends around
something that isn't there,
and I have stopped pretending
I want it to stop.