the house was forgetting him

The house had already begun

to forget him, the air in each room

closing in like a black hole,

swallowing him to extinction,

brushing past him, through

him.  His translucent 

bones give way to crevices

of irrelevance, receding
deep into the corners 

he once occupied. Floors begin

to unscuff, walls unsmudge; the perfume

of living withdraws to pure wisps

of breath as the face in his mirror

evaporates. The bed, the chair, all that

once held him, begin to forget his name.