The air is too clean,
not a trace of whispered lies
not a cloud of late night smoke.
Air that is not my own,
air that does not belong to anyone
within a three mile radius of my brainwaves.
The linens are too crisp
as if there hasn't been a single wounded soul
to lay and shed blood,
as if not a single voice has
ripped through its threads.
This is not my home.