The air is heavy with unanswered questions. Even the questions have questions.
Stale perfume and dead cigarette ash coat the curtains, a prison of stains that block the day’s busyness from peeking through the window.
Crinkled clothes and overburdened anger indent the cushions. The shag carpet grasps the shadows of footprints dragging, dragging.
Even as the movers bubble wrap and blanket the pictures, the sofa, the chairs, the lamps, you can almost see the ghosts of past mistakes jostling to fill the space.
One last look before you leave for the last time. One last hope that the movers didn’t pack those ghosts.
published in Write Under the Moon
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