They've made an exhibit of our room for the national museum. They took our lamps and our books, your contact lenses, the strands of my hair in the rug.
Now people come and shuffle around our bed and think, "There he lay desiring her." They take photos of my lipsticks under the mirror gray with reflecting us, they take photos of our CDs and holiday photos. They play your guitar a little, they shake out my clothes and remark, "She certainly liked to wear red, didn't she?" Now people sit at the desk worn by our four elbows, they chew gum and gaze at our posters on the blue cardboard walls, and the pot plants on a ledge cut out.
