In the house where we once lived
there are vines.
Inhabiting the place
where we once walked
there are trees
where no one will ever walk again.
I know these floors.
Here is the ghost of the mattress
where limbs tangled like vines
trying to inhabit eachother
Here where the flowers grow
without much assistance from the sun
irrelevant the day or the night
like when we knew eachother
the wind still trying to break up
the patterns we made,
rocks placed in the treads of bodies
awkwardly but purposefully strewn
disfiguring but not completely covering
the still shapely underbrush where
frolicking like floodwaters we
destroyed and made anew
everything to our whims.