Thunk. Thunk.

You drag me by my hair
About the house.

This is a
Memory;

You shuck me from my skin
And lick;

You toast to my good health and
Shtick—

You are,
Marrow, that occasionally
Resurrects,

Dim ghost you
Please
Yourself

In the merry-go-round of
Myself you

Are garbage,
Putrid embrace that never moves

From my face; a smother,
Like a drink,

Making taste
—Smell, is a memory,

That never leaves they say.

You linger in the doorway as
Never fully here but never fully

Gone.

When in the bed,
I lay,

Frozen in shape and I

Wait;

You must
Go now.

But even in death,
You are never

Far away.

Always just
One knock,

From entering.