Stare at your bedroom wall and bard me a story about the creeks of white between the sun-patches of blue paint, the faded yellow of the door where the damp towel was hung day after day after day. Tell me about the mark of a swept paintbrush that accidentally destroyed distinction between wall and radiator. They're no longer clean, either of them. How are the door handle dent marks from that hurried moment when you rushed into your room away from our argument? What of those stories? Will you need a new place to erase the memories from your mind? The flies and the walls cannot speak to anyone but you now.
It's all rotten anyway. The sweet stink of evenings spent in an intimate supine, with a cleaver caught upright in the cutting board bedpost. We were atop one another with our faces to the ceiling, reading passages of poems aloud after drenching the bed sheets in varied indentations. Cut words and minced gazes, we grayed as shadows against those weathered walls. I remember those walls, moonlight had reflected off the frames of littered photographs, those stories, and created a dance floor pattern of crescents and plank-meeting-plank askew. Those walls will tell me stories even if you decide not to anymore. I'd buy them all up, I would, as I do the meat hook-hanging in the butcher shop.