Imprint

This room has been marked by you;
Your imprint is in the walls
Rollered yellow,
Tacked in the curtain hems,
The re-upholstered chairs in royal blue
Laid out in the duo of Persian rugs.

You cover the three-piece suite,
Rest in the melody of your compact discs,
The pages of every book,
The mounted prints and photographs,
The polished glass and wood.

But no one knows how your hands press
Into my white flesh, splay across the folds
And curves, how your fingers
Entice, bring my body to life
Against your handmade cushion covers.

You have stitched my heart to yours,
Swept the cobwebs of doubt away.
When I go, your imprint is fire to my bones.
I wonder if my hand leaves an echo in that room
On the walls, on the rugs, on the chair, on you.