this is a room you haven't slept in yet,

and this skin has grown since i last saw you-
replaced itself

and the distant, but warm
blood that you tasted on my cheek the last time you kissed it
has since made its way through each vein and left-
replaced itself

and the smell of my shoulder,
gently rested beneath your chin
i've since changed my laundry detergent

and i've stitched the holes in my jacket
your finger used to trace each one
but i replaced each fray with new thread-
and i sleep with new dreams clouding my head

and my framed portrait of you fell to the floor
i replaced the glass, the image

but i still find you in laundry detergent and broken glass,
sleepless nights, skin cells mixed with blood

i tried
but god ******
i cannot replace you