Room is the same,
she knows, even
the curtains hang
similar to those she
had when it all began.  

The bed has the
memories soaked
into the very fabric
and springs, she
bounces minutely,

to set the memories
in motion. She stares
out at the window’s
view, the same old
houses and trees as

was before. She sat
here once listening
for the door. He’d come
back, he said. Would
have it set out in ******

play, she would wait
until told, just her, the
bed, the silk flowered
curtains, the plain walls.  
He came many times

after, played his games,
licked and kissed and
had her when and as
he pleased. She listens
to the wind now that

plays in branches of
the trees, that shakes
the window frame, that
seems to whisper her
naughtiness, echoes

her name. Yes, the room
is, she sighs, the same.