Imprint
The makeover was simple.
Nothing more required
than a disguise
of paint,
just like
a snake
shedding skin.
The ceilings shine black
and the walls,
they blink white
and I thought,
maybe,
that was the mistake.
Two, three, even
ten coats will
never hide the
mouths kissed,
bodies writhed,
nights lived in
a haze of drunken youth.
The imprints mark deeper
than cushion covers,
table tops, varnish;
they cut like
fallen stone.
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