No One Wears Me

The scentless gown:

I hung around her shoulders,

white and quiet.

Ash drifted toward me.

He watched her through smoke.

His eyes burned holes

where his hands would follow.

When he pulled her down,

I felt the floor first.

On the bed

their bodies moved beneath me—

heat pressing through cloth,

sweat sinking into my threads.

Salt.

Breath.

Every night.

I remember how he held her—

as if she might disappear.

Now

I hang in this dim room,

scentless.

He stares at the window.

No one wears me.

Outside, trees shed their branches.

Inside, the windows stay locked.

The door has forgotten how to open.

Ash settles on my fabric.

I breathe slowly—

like something once touched

but no longer held.