The door creaks open to usher her in,
Heavy with exhaustion she launches onto the empty couch,
Slides down,
Unbuttons her bra,
Is met by the strong scent of her own body,
Mixed with all the pain she refuses to heal,
The tag still on the door, as she left it,
Funny stench this, heavy too, it smells like lonely.
That apple and cinnamon scent still lingers,
The teacup, peaceful on the table as it was left,
This room, creaks and croaks with longing,
It’s been a while since a different nose breathed this air,
Stuffy with regret,
The lingering touch from the last body she felt against hers still fresh,
Because that is us,
Momentary, lust-coated in empty promises and naivety,
Always the craving, never the meal,
Always desired, never loved,
The water spilled next to the fridge, almost dissipated
Like her waning faith in love,
She undresses the façade,
Assumes the sad,
Settles into this hammock of lonely,
Strokes gently as she scrolls on her phone,
The TV screams in vain,
She offloads all the masks,
Comes back to herself,
As those almond eyes swell with sadness,
The mouth refuses to make a sound,
Clenched against the teeth and tongue,
This stung,
This lonesome, stung,
Feels almost unnatural,
Unnerving,
Almost abstract,
Teetering on the edge of insanity,
Consumed by the jaws of rejection,
Reality clocking on and off duty,
Swinging side to side,
A hammock.