The bathtub once stood erect, custom polished porcelain with golden claws.
A thin layer of dust kisses its rim, uninterrupted by fingerprints.
The signs of past sport are evident in the basin.

The silver drain and faucet now tarnished.
The scripted word, Amore, corroded.

The sheets on the bed lie crumpled, but only on the right.
The room holds no other furniture.
His jacket stretches across the naked floor.
The white washed walls are absent of decoration.
Her trunk sits in the doorway.

The apartment is stained with missing furniture.
The living room’s remaining piece, her cream loveseat.
Black stilettos, size seven, lie in disarray upon the floor.
Her sneakers, size five, sit in the hallway.
The apartment walls absorb their sounds unable to protest.

The faded blanket shivers in the bin.
The layered scents are laced within the stitches, stale coffee and burnt chicken.
The scent of lilac lies hidden, nestled in the folds, nearly masked by cheap perfume.
While the scent of Versace and Armani runs along the woven surface.
But overpowering them all is the smell of bleach.