Slick, sticky vinyl is making a sweaty mess of my skin

I think about all these Train Station Men
and how they must look just like my father

After I leave This One I can still feel his hands on me
Just like I can feel the 2 a.m wine session in the living room
         Every Tuesday night making dinner together in the kitchen,
                  Making a ritual out of loving each other in every room

I can scrub my skin until I am bleeding; raw
                  but
I cannot take his memory from the blueprints of these rooms

I do not know if I can ever live in these four walls
unmoored from the context of us

I try to leave before I am left
         And
         I do
         this time

I am finally crying in a forgettable place

The bus ride is lonely.