spiraling quickly towards the end
my gaze lingers on objects in this room
which will no longer reside here
in three days’ time—
        a teeny prosecco bottle in the windowsill
        shakespeare plays, austen novels in the closet
        canvas totes hanging from a blue bookshelf
       photostrips, notes, posters taped to the walls
all unceremoniously stripped and packed away
awaiting a tiresome journey across the atlantic.

my existence diminished to condensation rings
        and the lingering scent of rose perfume.