Room to Let

​I look fine.

I go to work.

I go to bars.

I write poems now.

​But there's a dirty little room

inside of me

where you used to sleep.

​Once it smelled like jasmine

and the sheets were clean.

​Now it reeks of cigarettes

and cheap perfume.

​The locks rusted off.

​

Women come and go,

but none of them stay

or tidy up.

​I don't blame them.

It's hard to clean a room

that's always dark.

​Most of the lights have burned out,

except for one.

​But it's starting to flicker.