Today I cleared out the space under the bed, a place
I seldom go. Pulled out a tracksuit top you bought
in a jumble sale in the 1980s. I smell the collar,
pulling your aroma to hit the soft part of my brain
that time-travels. But
there is no smell, no trace
of you in this piece of cloth, today. You
are not there anymore, in the ectoplasm of things. You are
granulated, inside our shared DNA, the nuclear envelope floats away, your essence suspended in cytosol, in a constant state of flux, not harboured like dank grey cloth picked up on a whim in some draughty hall.