Roach legs writhe on matchbox walls
stained yellow smoke except white under frames
where our pictures used to hang.
Piss is peeling away the paint
Mold spews from the ducts
Old soot still crusts the window
they can't wipe off.
Phantom faces
lapsed on the rent
float through the halls
when they are asleep,
half remembering footsteps
reenacting paths that no longer lead
to the same bathrooms
or the same beds.
When the lights flick on they suck back up,
into the vents.