Condensation

You entered through the rain-swollen door.  Buckling sideways. You, not the door. The smell of wood and water permeated from your pores, mingled in your hair. Your hands left residue on the walls, stains on my clothes, dampened my eyelashes. Bog boy. Limbs like sticks. Bits of bark fell, nestled themselves under pillows, spread themselves across the kitchen floor.  Fine silt settled in the bathroom sink, layered the bathtub where ghosts of your fingerprints marked your wanderings. Light was caught in puddles that dappled the dining room floor, as twigs like boats drifted from shore to shore. You slipped into my bed, rooted beneath yielding sheets and into the mattress. The gentle groan of slow expanding wood your only voice as dried leaves, thin as the hollowed shells of dead insects, rolled across the bedroom floor—lazy  meanderings beneath the slow push of a fan.



This is one of my older poems.
Photographer unknown 
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