you are a rocking chair, whose screws have come loose.
you are a mattress, whose springs have cut into my skin.
you are a pillow, flattened by heavy heads and heaving hearts,
stained with tears.
you are an old pair of sneakers, worn from years of running along mud-soaked paths.
you are a rusty blade,
you are a wooden chest of drawers brought to the ground by termites.
we are glasses half empty,
a light switched off.
so fill me, and ill fill you; my drink is your drink.
(“please, lover. turn the light back on. i can’t find our promises in the dark.”)
read me our story in this chair, on this bed.
we don’t need new shoes, throw out the knife.
store your secrets in me and ill store mine in you.
turn it back on, bathe me with kisses in the light.