Where the painting hung

When we took down the painting a paler rectangle stayed on the wall: the freshly-painted skin the house had been keeping there.

Around it the years went by, the sun, the smoke, the light switched on at odd hours.

Inside it, untouched, the afternoon we moved in.

Nobody repaints that patch. It doesn't feel right. It's the youngest thing left in the house and it still doesn't know the ship is gone.