Dayle's Skin in My Carpet

I live in the dead boy’s
room

he had his bed by my
wall

He broke his leg, I can tell by
the letters, demanding he pay
for the loan of the
crutches, demanding he pay
for the
fall

I walk barefoot on his
floor

I sit and I type where he
stood

I lie on the carpet that
holds

his hair and his skin in its
folds.